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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828448">toss a coin to my husband</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver'>shestepsintotheriver</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>non-human Jaskier [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidental Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherhood, Ciri loves her new dad, Domestic, Family, Fluff, Humor, Husbands to Friends to Lovers, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier came out here to have a good time and he's honestly having so much fun right now, Jaskier is Geralt’s Significant Annoyance, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier: Keeper of the Unicorn, Law Of Surprise, M/M, Witchers vs. Common Sense, a beastly unicorn called Greg, accidental lovers, accidentally in love, also his Significant Other but the first should be emphasised, or: Geralt Never Fucking Learns, overuse of the phrase THAT'S MY HUSBAND, wintering at Kaer Morhen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:14:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,943</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828448</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Geralt hasn't learned a thing and claims the Law of Surprise after saving a woman from drowners. Destiny can't possibly catch him off guard again, right?</p><p>His Husband Surprise proves him wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>non-human Jaskier [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>541</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3818</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Abby's Witcher Collection, Favorites, Just.... So cute..., The Witcher - Various Alternate Universes</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi y'all!<br/>the response to the previous fic in this series has just been... out of this world, and i cannot thank everyone enough.</p><p>here's to the next adventure!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It happens because Geralt just wants some peace and quiet. Of course, Yennefer would say it happens because Geralt is ‘an idiot who doesn’t know how not to bait Destiny and reaps the dubious rewards accordingly’, which is why Yen doesn’t get to tell the story.</p><p>It happens like this:</p><p>The woman he has just saved from drowners won’t stop propositioning him. Not outright; she fancies herself too dignified for that. But the hints and the salacious leering are hard to misinterpret, even for one with as limited social graces as Geralt.</p><p>One would think she’d heard the stories about him. Granted, they’re not as bad now as they were before <em>The</em> <em>Song of the White Wolf </em>got popular (even if it also emphasized how different, how <em>other </em>Geralt is), but the stain of Blaviken follows him still, more than enough to keep most people at bay. Geralt of Rivia—and all Witchers, besides—are bloody-handed freaks whom humanity sadly needs to rid them of monsters, or they’d have done away with them long ago (or so men claim whilst in their cups).</p><p>But whether this woman has simply never heard of him—a rarity—or whether his reputation actually enhances her attraction—which wouldn’t endear her to him—her regard unsettles him. Maybe it’s the way she watches him, like an animal she wants to cage for her own amusement, never mind that it suffers.</p><p>“There must be <em>something</em> I can offer you, Witcher,” she says again, twirling to face him as she walks backwards. For someone who’s just nearly died, she’s bounced back quite admirably. If there’s one thing to be said for humans, it’s that they’re remarkably resilient to a foolhardy degree. “Some… <em>boon</em> I might grant you?”</p><p>What Geralt wants most of all is for her to trip over her skirts and grow so embarrassed that she’ll be quiet for the rest of the walk. Given how sprightly she moves around, however, he’s got a better chance of meeting a unicorn than shaking her.</p><p>“I want for nothing,” he grunts at her.</p><p>“I simply must show my <em>appreciation</em>, Witcher. I <em>must</em>,” she insists.</p><p>He could ask for money. Witchers don’t work for free, after all. But he’d stumbled on her only by accident, and with how unfavourably Witchers are regarded, there’s a better chance that his request will be taken as a sign that he’d orchestrated the entire ordeal—no drowner contracts in this area last he’d heard—and be run out of town and thus cheated of the actual contract he’s headed to Posada for.</p><p>That’s why he sighs, beyond fed up, and says, “Law of Surprise, then.”</p><p>Now, you might argue that Geralt and the Law of Surprise are not, exactly, on good terms. Or Geralt and Destiny, for that matter. He’ll admit that he has a tendency to, as Yen would say, ‘fuck up spectacularly’ in that regard. Last time he claimed the Law of Surprise, he’d ended up with a kid (and promptly run from that responsibility, which didn’t help his reputation any), and the last time he bargained with Destiny… well. It got him Yennefer in the end, but the road there was long and rough.</p><p>Still, it’s the only thing he can think of to shut the woman up.</p><p>Which she does. Promptly. He exchanges a relieved glance with Roach and leads the lady home, eager to be rid of her. He expects he’ll end up with a courting gift or something; the woman is quite young (also part of why accepting her offer is a big, fat <em>no</em>), obviously wealthy, and likely to have a long line of suitors eagerly vying for her hand. She’s probably got courting gifts arriving every hour, even here on the edge of the world. The Surprise will in all likelihood be useless to him, a jewelled headband or a ring, maybe. He’ll give it to Ciri, and that’ll be the end of it.</p><p>What he does not expect is to be met by the woman’s father and another (oddly familiar) man the second they arrive at her house. It’s the only grand structure for miles around, a diamond nestled in the dirt and grit that is this farmers’ town.</p><p>What he does not expect is for the woman to bounce towards her father, babbling about her adventures—yes, she actually uses the word ‘adventure’, Melitele, she’s young and dumb—and shouting, “bring me that which I have but do not know! The Witcher has claimed the Law of Surprise!”</p><p>What he does expect is for the father to get angry. A wealthy man, Geralt isn’t surprised that he’d be angry to lose a shiny bauble that he could replace a hundred times over. Rich people, in his experience, like nothing more than hoarding anything and everything.</p><p>And the father does get angry, grows purple in the face and sputters indignantly. What Geralt does not expect is for the second man to round on them all, shrieking, “<em>You just betrothed my son to a Witcher</em>, <em>you idiot!</em>”</p><p>Times like these call for words, and Geralt has just the right one: “<em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p>*</p><p>Because of the mess in Cintra, the lords don’t trust Geralt not to run, and they put him in a cell while the wedding preparations are swiftly undertaken. There’s a lot of things Geralt could say to that, all of them expletives, but they don’t ask for his input.</p><p>Instead, he sits in his cell, mulishly contemplating how to get out of the whole affair; he can’t break out, because of course this noble just happened to have enchanted steel for his dungeon, that’s just Geralt’s luck; he can’t murder everyone and run, both because he doesn’t actually want to kill them and also because Vesemir would cheerfully skin him for blackening the reputation of Witchers even more (or, more importantly: Ciri would be disappointed in him); and as it stands, he won’t be able to refuse marrying whatever poor sod awaits him.</p><p>Speaking of that poor sod…</p><p>As Geralt is glaring at the walls and contemplating becoming a monk somewhere far, far away, the door to the dungeon gets flung open and a colourfully dressed bard strolls in, appearing almost offensively cheerful. He looks happy to see Geralt—one of the universal signs of trouble to come, and Geralt does not like it one bit.</p><p>The bard drags a chair up to the bars and throws himself into it.</p><p>Geralt eyes him dispassionately. He’s tall, almost as tall as Geralt himself, with brown, wavy hair, blue, <em>blue </em>eyes that glint impishly, and a theatrical pout that makes his lips purse. This alarms Geralt, for some reason or other. Probably his finely attuned Witcher senses recognizing trouble.</p><p>There’s something else about the bard, too. Something that niggles at Geralt insistently as they stare at each other from either side of the bars.</p><p>“My dearest Witcher,” the man begins, voice uncommonly pleasant to the ear even as the bard is obviously laughing at Geralt (and that observation is neither here nor there). It rattles something lose in his skull, that damn familiarity that’s just beyond his grasp. “I love how you just… sit in your cell and brood. My name is Jaskier—well, Julian Alfred Pankratz, but that’s just so long and tedious, you know—"</p><p>“I know you,” Geralt interrupts. It’s the voice that does it. “You’re wrote that song about me.”</p><p>Jaskier beams. “I did! We met once, you know, in—”</p><p>“I remember you.”</p><p>“Oh! Oh, that’s <em>lovely</em>—”</p><p>“You tripped on nothing and spilled wine all over a Countess.” Geralt frowns, the memory coming back in pieces. Jaskier had worn gold that day, his doublet unlaced at the top, his undershirt peeking out along with his chest hair, and he’d lost all composure with just one look at Geralt, obviously not having expected a Witcher, especially not the Butcher of Blaviken, at a royal betrothal feast. “Didn’t a lord threaten to geld you?”</p><p>“Uh, ha, no, that was my cousin… Kasjier.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“Anyway! Stop remembering that, that’s not important! The important thing is that you know of me and my lovely song—”</p><p>“<em>Hmm</em>.”</p><p>“What do you mean ‘<em>hmm</em>’? I shall ignore that tone <em>only once, </em>good sir,” he squawks indignantly, waving his arms like a bird struggling to take flight. Just looking at him tires Geralt out, there’s so much unholy energy in him. And he still looks happy to be here; there is clearly something wrong with him. “For the sake of our future felicity, of course, but when we’re married, you <em>will </em>have to use your words and tell me sweet things, my ego is very delicate, you know, and it’s your duty as a husband—”</p><p>Geralt blinks.</p><p>Fuck no is he marrying that peacock of a bard. No way. Absolutely no—</p><p>*</p><p>He marries the fucking bard.</p><p>Twenty swords at his back and the baleful glare of both that woman’s and Jaskier’s fathers, the whole town gathered to watch the spectacle as the Butcher of Blaviken weds the troublesome heir of Viscount de Lettenhove.</p><p>Jaskier is unaccountably upbeat and seems to enjoy the whole thing, beaming at the officiant, the crowd, his unhappy father, and Geralt most of all. Geralt, on the other hand, has developed a twitch in his jaw, the vein in his forehead is visibly pulsing, and his glare has already made one particularly sensitive matron faint.</p><p>Why him? Why does Destiny seek to fuck him over time and time again? Does Destiny not have anything better to do than to observe Geralt and go, ‘you know what, how about we make it just a tad more difficult for this guy to exist?’ Somewhere, Eskel and Lambert are laughing at him. Geralt just <em>knows</em>.</p><p>As soon as the ceremony is over, Geralt turns on his heel and stalks away, only to have his new husband catch him by the arm and demand, “We are staying for the cake, or so help me Melitele.”</p><p>Geralt snarls at him.</p><p>Jaskier flinches, but then he narrows his eyes.</p><p>They stay for the cake.</p><p>*</p><p>Geralt fully intends to leave him behind. He makes his excuses, citing the contract he’d come for, and it works on everyone (because they want him gone). Except, for some unholy reason, on his new husband.</p><p>“Go <em>away</em>,” Geralt tells him, more than slightly uneasy with company.</p><p>“I won’t be but silent back-up, I promise!”</p><p>“<em>No</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>. Look, I’m a bard. Bards need muses, and, and adventure, and stories,” Jaskier declares, trailing after Geralt as they make their way into the wilderness of Dol Blathanna, seeking the so-called ‘devil’ that has the townsfolk so bothered. He’d had just one bag to bring with him and a lute. That’s it, nothing else. For an obvious dandy, he travels almost like a commoner. “And you? Oh, you are just perfect, dearest husband. You smell of death, and Destiny. <em>Heroics</em>, and heartbreak, and… what is that? Sweat?”</p><p>Will honesty make him go away? “It’s onion.”</p><p>Jaskier blinks, but rallies. “Well, that’s not going in the song.”</p><p>If Geralt ‘accidentally’ trips him off the cliff, will he be quiet on the way down, or will he scream out lyrics as he plummets?</p><p>“So, like I said,” Jaskier keeps going, either oblivious to Geralt’s bad mood or undaunted by it, “silent back-up. Or, well, back-up. I don’t really go in for the whole silence thing. I suppose you compliment me in that manner, what with the whole stoic thing you’ve got going.”</p><p>He never. Fucking. Stops talking.</p><p>Not when the ‘devil’—really a Sylvan—attacks them. Not when the Elves tie them up and threaten them. Not when Geralt hisses at him to be quiet so that he might have a second to try and talk them out of killing Jaskier, at the very least. He’s just a bard, unfortunately saddled with Geralt for a husband. He’s annoying, but he shouldn’t die for it.</p><p>But the Elves make the mistake of breaking Jaskier’s lute, and gods, the sheer affront this gives rise to. He squawks like an angry goose, wriggles incessantly, outright provokes the Elves in godsdamned Elder, <em>where the fuck did he pick that up</em>, and, most confusingly of all, he defends Geralt’s reputation with a viciousness that startles all of them.</p><p>It gives Geralt pause, because… why? Jaskier himself wrote a song about how unlike a human Geralt is, how removed from the softer sensibilities such as caring or joy. If that was how he saw Geralt after just one meeting—not even a meeting, for they had never spoken—how might he look on Geralt now that Geralt has managed to trap him in an accidental marriage? (Granted, an accidental marriage that he had appeared to gleefully enter into to. Something’s really wrong with this idiot).</p><p>In any case, Jaskier thinks of him at least semi-favourably.</p><p>In the end, they’re let go, and the first thing Jaskier does (other than coo over his new, Elven lute, gifted to him by Filavandrel himself) is to flutter about Geralt, checking his wounds and babbling about all sorts of things that Geralt doesn’t care to follow. (He’d also like it noted that he only allows Jaskier’s fussing because he’s too surprised to protest. Next time, he’ll be prepared and rebuff him).</p><p>Wait. <em>Next time</em>?</p><p>There isn’t going to be a next time. First chance he gets, Geralt is going to hightail it out of Posada. Winter is coming; he needs to go home. He’s got people waiting for him. And he is most certainly not bringing a loud-mouthed, possibly insane bard to meet them, no matter what vows he was forced to swear. They don’t have the time for that sort of idiocy.</p><p>And it’s not like escaping from the bard is going to be difficult.</p><p>*</p><p>Day seventeen: Geralt has not managed to shake Jaskier yet. To be completely honest, he rather doubts he’s going to be able to.</p><p>In the beginning, he’d tried every day, sneaking away whenever Jaskier slept. That should have done it. Keyword: <em>should</em>. He’s on horseback and a Witcher besides, and Jaskier is a human bard <em>walking </em>around. It <em>should</em> have been easy.</p><p>When Jaskier keeps turning up, Geralt readjusts that notion.</p><p>Destiny has decreed that Geralt should be a husband, and thus Jaskier finds his way to every fucking establishment that Geralt stops at on the way to Kaer Morhen, smirking at Geralt as he comes through the door with a fresh kill over his shoulder. He can’t even double back or try to shake Jaskier by taking a more circuitous route; he’s riding against time, trying to make it to Kaer Morhen before the first snows, stopping only to do quick jobs for quick coin. Against Destiny, there’s no running.</p><p>“How does he <em>do</em> it,” Geralt whispers to Roach, watching Jaskier warily out the corner of one eye as he flits about Geralt’s camp, literally a spot in the middle of the forest that a city-dweller like Jaskier should not have been able to find. “What <em>is </em>he?”</p><p>Because it’s clear that Jaskier is… something. Geralt’s not exactly sure what. Whatever it is, it doesn’t make his medallion hum, so he’s banking on it being either non-lethal or such a small amount of inhuman blood that it’s virtually non-existent.</p><p>At first, he thinks Jaskier might have Elf-blood. It would explain his youthful looks (for he had looked exactly like this the first time Geralt saw him, of that he is absolutely certain) and the strange ability to track Geralt down no matter where he goes. He concludes that Jaskier is not, based on the evidence he gathers with his Witcher training (meaning: he bluntly asks, “Any Elves in your family tree?”, to which Jaskier laughs and says no. His heart does not stutter. Not a lie then).</p><p>There are a number of other humanoid monsters that are possible then, most of which would throw half-human offspring out with the bathwater, or let the human parent raise them without any interest knowing the child themselves. Problem is, Jaskier is too… attractive, for lack of better word, to be descended from most of them. Bruxa would be possible, or even siren, but he has none of the blood-thirsty characteristics, and again, Geralt’s medallion doesn’t react to him.</p><p>The mystery is driving Geralt up the fucking wall.</p><p>Another reason Geralt’s stops trying is the fact that Jaskier’s presence actually makes Geralt’s life just a little bit easier. One way is that he’s already finished a new (annoying) song about him, this one such a big hit that it actually gets people doing as it asks: tossing coins to Geralt even if he’s just sitting in a corner (“brooding. <em>Brooding</em> in a corner, dear husband.” “Stop calling me that.” “But <em>Geralt.</em>”)</p><p>There’s also the fact that if Jaskier is the one to ask for room and food, they actually get something palatable. Jaskier is a clear favourite at inns and taverns, drawing an audience despite the weather and the war that hasn’t been abandoned just yet, even if it lies dormant for now. Their room is often small and only has one bed, but it is large enough for them to sleep without touching, and Roach gets stabled comfortably for the night, which is the least Geralt can do for her.</p><p>Sometimes, when he comes back to a dry place to sleep and a substantial meal for both himself and Roach, Geralt allows himself to think that maybe Jaskier isn’t the worst person Destiny could’ve thrown at him.</p><p>*</p><p>And then there’s the fact that Jaskier is a godsdamned menace.</p><p>Geralt learns this on the second night of their travels. It’s the first time Jaskier’s found him, he’s just returned from a hunt with guts in his hair, and he’s more than a little pissed to have the bard grin at him from across the room. He turns his back for one second to inquire about room; the next, there’s a yelp, running footsteps, and suddenly, Jaskier is attached to him.</p><p>“You see, dear sir,” he’s saying. “This is my husband, I wouldn’t be unfaithful to him, I swear I didn’t touch your wife.”</p><p>When Geralt turns, stone-faced, the brawny farmer who’s followed Jaskier loses a good deal of courage. He’s still got enough foolishness left to swear vengeance for “the sullying of my precious wife!”, but with one look, Geralt sends him on his way.</p><p>That is not the last time that happens. The tenth time, Geralt rounds on Jaskier, growling, “Is there a single pantry you haven’t hidden your sausage in?”</p><p>Jaskier squawks. “You make it sound so lurid. I assure you I was very much in love with all of them, at the time. Besides! All that was long ago. I thought they’d have forgotten by now.”</p><p>No one has forgotten; the idiot is not only hopelessly addicted to romancing other people’s wives and husbands, but ridiculously skilled at doing so, and there’s nothing that infuriates a lover more than being ranked second. Geralt tries to stay out of it. <em>Tries. </em>But Jaskier keeps getting him involved, running to Geralt’s side whenever yet another scorned spouse starts baying for his blood, swearing love and devotion and endless fidelity to “his dearest husband, have you met my husband? Geralt, tell this person hello.”</p><p>Just hearing the word ‘husband’ makes Geralt want to bare his teeth.</p><p>Another way that Jaskier gets on his nerves—truly an endless list—is that he is perfectly at ease taking liberties with Geralt’s person. After the incident with the farmer, Jaskier turns to Geralt and says, “Is that a lung in your hair? That’s a lung. Innkeeper! A bath, please!”</p><p>Which is how Geralt gets used to getting bullied into baths every single time Jaskier feels like it. Sure, Geralt likes baths. Sorely misses them, in fact, when he goes without. But he’d like it if those baths were administered according to his own preferences, not Jaskier’s delicate sensibilities. Does the bard care? No.</p><p>(The worst part is… once Geralt is in the bath and Jaskier has sluiced off the worst blood and guts, complaining about stains on Geralt’s clothing all the while (why does he complain? They’re not his clothes), Jaskier will wash his hair. Which is awful. Because his fingers are nimble and strong and Geralt suspects foul magic at play. Never mind that the medallion still isn’t reacting).</p><p>“What are you?” he asks during one such occasion. Jaskier is combing… intestines? Those feel like intestines, from his hair. He’s not exactly gentle, but he is thorough, and the steady pull makes something smoulder at the base of Geralt’s belly, so it’s tolerable. Pleasant even, if you’re into that sort of thing.</p><p>Jaskier pauses, his heart skipping a beat. He’s quiet for so long that Geralt suspects he might try and lie his way out of answering. But then, “The answer to that depends entirely on how mad you’re going to be if I tell you the truth.”</p><p>Geralt sighs. Considers drowning himself in the bath. “I won’t be mad,” he promises. If Jaskier was truly something dangerous, he’d have tried to kill Geralt by now. <em>Bring it, Destiny.</em></p><p>“So, hypothetically…”</p><p>Oh, fuck. No good surprises have ever started with those words.</p><p>“Stop making that face Geralt, scary-face is for other people’s spouses and bastards who try to stiff you on jobs. So, as I was saying, <em>hypothetically</em>, if I were to tell you that I <em>am</em> human—”</p><p>“But you’re not.”</p><p>“Don’t interrupt me. I think, technically, I still am, to some degree or other. Only, I’m also, <em>hypothetically, </em>something a little bit different. But before I tell you, there’s something we should discuss.”</p><p>Geralt is not interested in discussing anything except what the hell Jaskier is. He needs to know. If he’s bringing Jaskier back to Kaer Morhen—which he is, he might as well accept that fate, tragic as it is—he needs to be assured that doing so won’t endanger Ciri. If Jaskier’s mere existence threatens Ciri, Geralt won’t hesitate to cut him down, Husband Surprise or no. “What.”</p><p>“Your grasp of inflection is severely lac—don’t growl at me, you brute.” Jaskier flicks him on the nose. And laughs at the outraged look Geralt sends him. “The thing is… you must have wondered why I was so eager to marry you, yes?”</p><p>“Hmm.” Geralt <em>has </em>wondered. And assumed that it was because Jaskier was a damn idiot, he really hasn’t been able to see any other viable reason.</p><p>“The thing is, I didn’t want to marry at all. The match with young Lady Mira was entirely my father’s doing, the one last thing he swore he’d ever ask of me. Funny how that one thing would’ve bound me in place for life, but that’s just his way. I don’t want to be viscount—and I won’t now, the title and lands will go to my most odious cousin and good riddance! But reputation is everything with nobility, and the Viscount the Lettenhove <em>will not be shamed by his son acting the commoner</em>…”</p><p>He rambles for a while. There’s a good deal of petty anger in there, more than a bit of hurt, too, and he flits between emotions so fast, Geralt can barely keep track. His scent, wind, and warmth, and expensive bath oil, goes sharp, then acrid, then mellow.</p><p>“The point, Jaskier,” Geralt asks (begs).</p><p>“I have a proposal. I didn’t want to marry anyone, and you definitely didn’t want to marry me, but here we are, and really, it’s a stroke of luck for the both of us. We’re both going to live a very long time, so what I propose is this: give me… forty? Fifty? Fifty years. Long enough for people to assume I’ve died—I’ll rewrite myself with another name, have no fear, my career will live on—or have forgotten about the Witcher and his husband entirely. After that, we go our separate ways. I don’t get killed by a mob for witchcraft or whatever nonsense, and you don’t have to see me ever again when all this is over. Sounds good?”</p><p>Geralt mulls that over. Since he first suspected that Jaskier wasn’t quite what he seemed, he’s been getting used to the idea that he might never get rid of him, despite how much he wants to. Still, something about that proposal doesn’t sit well with him. “You can’t cheat destiny,” he says. “I should know.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, yes, I came, I saw, I wrote the song.” Jaskier waves nonchalantly. “We’re not <em>cheating</em> Destiny. We’re just… using the loopholes Destiny left us. Destiny would that we be wed, and we are. No one ever said we had to stay together forever.”</p><p>“That’s usually what marriage means.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want to be married to me? In that case, I require a great deal more wooing, dear husband.”</p><p>Geralt will not murder Jaskier. He will not.</p><p>“I’ll take your silence as tacit agreement to my proposal, yes? Now, back to the whole ‘what are you’ thing—really great work on inflection there by the way—ow! Stop pinching me!” Jaskier pulls on Geralt’s hair; Geralt snaps his teeth at him. “As I was saying! I am human, but also not. To explain it proper, there’s someone I want you to meet. He’s been looking forward to meeting you, by the way.”</p><p>“‘He’?”</p><p>Jaskier’s grin is not to be trusted.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>cw: mature content ahead<br/>aka sex</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em>What the fuck is that</em>?” Geralt curses and pushes Jaskier behind him, drawing his silver sword.</p>
<p>Jaskier has the audacity to thump his shoulder. “Stop that! That’s Greg!”</p>
<p>‘That’, or ‘Greg’ as Jaskier insists, is a thoroughly unnerving white horse. Its left eye has a scar running through it, and it’s got a beard like a billy goat which curls slightly at the tips. It’s the kind of creature you may expect to see out the corner of your eye when you’ve just woken from a nightmare and the chair you’ve hung your clothes on looks more like a threat than anything ordinary.</p>
<p>There’s just something so obviously <em>wrong </em>with it, but still Geralt’s medallion lies silently against his breast. He eyes it suspiciously as Jaskier fawns over it, stroking its long, beautiful mane and nattering about, “who’s a pretty boy? <em>You</em> are. Yes, you are.”</p>
<p>Its coat is glossy and handsome, Geralt will admit, and it’s tail held high with excitement. When he looks at it from the corner of his eye instead of directly, the horse seems to have more than two eyes—and they seem to be front facing. But when he looks properly, it’s just a horse. A weird horse, but still.</p>
<p>One thing that doesn’t change, however, are the hooves. More specifically, the <em>cloven</em> hooves.  </p>
<p>“<em>What</em>,” Geralt demands. He has not let go of his sword yet.</p>
<p>“He’s a unicorn!” Jaskier tells him, drawing back Greg’s forelock to show Geralt a small bony nub. “Honestly, Geralt, can’t you recognize a unicorn when you see one?”</p>
<p>Since unicorns are supposed to be <em>true </em>myths, no, Geralt can<em>not</em>.  </p>
<p>“Thought the horn was supposed to be bigger.”</p>
<p>Jaskier gasps and covers Greg’s ears. The beast looks scandalized, too. “It’s autumn! He sheds his horn each year, he’ll grow it back. And that was really insensitive, can’t you see he’s self-conscious about it?”</p>
<p>Geralt sighs. Let’s go of his sword.</p>
<p>“He’s not coming with us.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The unicorn comes with them.</p>
<p>As the source of Jaskier’s immortality (“told you I was still technically human!”), the two are pretty much eternal travel companions, and if Geralt had any hope of leaving the unnerving thing behind, that hope gets salted and burned amidst Jaskier’s continuous whining and promises that Greg is the ‘best, most well-behaved darling you’ll ever see’.</p>
<p>“If he eats anyone, he’s dead,” Geralt swears. Better make that clear right now.</p>
<p>“He wouldn’t eat anyone, how dare you!” A beat. “He might… nibble a little. But only on corpses!”</p>
<p>
  <em>No killing your husband. No maiming either.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And if you slay his pet monster, he may cry on you, which must be avoided at all costs.</em>
</p>
<p>They march on and the weather gets colder.</p>
<p>Greg is fascinated by everything. Geralt, Roach (who does not appreciate the company, despite how quickly she’d grown fond of Jaskier), Geralt, Jaskier, Geralt—really, he won’t leave Geralt the fuck alone. He’s worse than Jaskier. Like a humongous dog that thinks Geralt will pet him if he’s pushy enough.</p>
<p>(If Geralt sometimes gives in, it’s purely out of self-preservation. That nubby little horn isn’t much, but Greg is a bastard who will gladly rub his whole head against Geralt, uncaring that said little horn is still pointy and more than slightly dangerous).</p>
<p>Wherever they go, Jaskier leaves his mark. He sings and people listen. With him there, Geralt endures less suspicion and almost no outright hatred. Humans still avoid him, but any day not spent ducking stones is a good day in Geralt’s book. Jaskier is appalled that this is Geralt’s standard for good treatment and writes more deeply untrue songs about him.</p>
<p>One he rarely plays, however, is the one that made him truly famous in the first place: <em>The Song of the White Wolf. </em>The first song he ever wrote about Geralt.</p>
<p>“It just doesn’t draw a crowd like it used to,” Jaskier says when Geralt asks. Not because he cares, but because he likes knowing things. “Besides, I can hardly sing of your supposed stone-heart and loneliness when you’re sitting right there, it just doesn’t work. It’s better for cold winter nights, when the wolves are howling, and all the ghost stories seem true.”</p>
<p>He plays <em>Toss A Coin </em>instead and gets everyone singing along. If only the lyrics weren’t so damn catchy, maybe Geralt would be able to sleep without the melody aggressively inserting itself into his dreams. He can’t even meditate away from it. He gets used to it, just as he gets used to Jaskier himself.</p>
<p>It is, in fact, almost frightening how quickly Geralt gets used to him. Part of it may be attributed to the fact that Jaskier simply doesn’t care to tip-toe around him and simply embeds himself in Geralt’s life without waiting for his say-so. Geralt could get mad, but honestly, he’s a little relieved by it. Jaskier doesn’t hide his intentions, just tells Geralt why he’s here and why he’s sticking around, no two ways about it. It’s refreshing, knowing where you stand at all times.</p>
<p>It’s one of the bard’s finer qualities, of which there are a few, much as Geralt is reluctant to admit it. Like… his voice is nice. Geralt doesn’t tell him this, of course; otherwise, Jaskier might start singing more (it should be impossible; he sings all the fucking time, makes up little working songs to get through the day or just to obnoxiously narrate whatever he’s doing at any given time, like ‘<em>oh, Roachy-Roach, oh, Roachy-Roach, how elegant your manners</em>!’).</p>
<p>Another is how he always leaves room for Geralt to insert himself into the conversation, easily fitting in little pauses where he thinks Geralt might like to comment; it’s a nice gesture, even if Geralt never takes him up on it. Not just because he doesn’t want to (seriously, why would Jaskier think he’d have an opinion on last year’s fashion in Toussaint?); but because despite having Jaskier talk at him constantly, Geralt isn’t yet quite sure how to talk back in anything but grunts and biting comments.</p>
<p>Jaskier doesn’t mind his silence, even if he remarks on it from time to time with teasing that Geralt doesn’t know what to do with. His first instinct is to brood harder. His second is to think Jaskier genuinely mocks him; wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. His third is to just let Jaskier do whatever Jaskier does and hurry him along the path. It works for both of them.</p>
<p>“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Jaskier says one night when they’re sleeping under the stars, curled into each other—because it’s <em>cold</em>, and Geralt can’t sleep with Jaskier’s chattering teeth, no other reason. It’s the husbandly thing to make sure he doesn’t die in the night. “Where are we going exactly?”</p>
<p>Geralt slowly turns to him. “It’s only just occurring to you to ask that <em>now</em>?”</p>
<p>“Well, I didn’t think it was important until you started getting grumpier about lingering at the inns!”</p>
<p>Deep breath in, deep breath out.</p>
<p>“Sleep, Jaskier.”</p>
<p>“Alright, alright, someone’s in a bad mood—”</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>“Shutting up now!”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>He tells Jaskier where they’re going the next morning. Both because he needs to know, and also because there are certain rules that need to be stated very, very clearly (Jaskier seems the type to ignore rules he doesn’t like, best force him to acknowledge them before they become strictly relevant).</p>
<p>“We’re going to Kaer Morhen.”</p>
<p>“The Witcher keep?”</p>
<p>No, the royal beach property. Seriously, what else would it be? “Hmm.”</p>
<p>“Huh, didn’t think that rumour was true. Do you Witchers hibernate, too? You know… like bears?”</p>
<p>Geralt glares. “No.”</p>
<p>“Well, maybe you should consider it. You’re a little tense, dear husband.”</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yes, dear?”</p>
<p>Geralt glares harder. Ignores the jaunty smirk. “There are rules—”</p>
<p>“Nooooo, Geralt, say it ain’t so—”</p>
<p>“One,” Geralt holds up a finger, because being firm with Jaskier is his best hope of any of his instructions sticking (not that he holds out much hope, because, well, <em>Jaskier</em>), “you are a guest. You will behave. Or I’ll stand back and let my brothers kill you—”</p>
<p>“Are they all as charming as you?”</p>
<p>“<em>Two</em>. You will not write a song about anything you see there.”</p>
<p>Naturally, that gets a reaction.</p>
<p>‘But Geralt!’, ‘But!’, ‘Geralt, I am a bard!’, ‘Singing is what I do!’</p>
<p>“No songs,” Geralt keeps repeating.</p>
<p>In the end, they settle on a compromise: Jaskier will not write songs about anything he sees at the keep, as long as Geralt (and maybe even his brothers or Vesemir) feed him tales to turn into songs. Geralt isn’t happy about it, but it is what it is. Maybe he’ll loosen Jaskier on Lambert when the latter is being especially dickish and let his husband annoy his brother to death. Sounds like a plan.</p>
<p>“I won that argument,” he tells Roach later that night as he’s brushing her down. It’s been a rough few days out in the wild, and she deserves a treat. (She does not deserve Greg trying to nuzzle her, but even that she has grown to tolerate in small doses. She’s truly the best horse in the world).</p>
<p>Roach eyes him dubiously. So does Greg.</p>
<p>“I <em>did</em>. Fuck you, Greg.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>They’re about a week from reaching the foot of the Blue Mountains and the trail leading them to Kaer Morhen when Geralt loses patience with Jaskier’s past dalliances. They’re in yet another small village with yet another slew of spouses swearing blood and death upon Geralt’s idiot bard, and Jaskier has deployed the phrase ‘that’s my husband, over there, look! Geralt, do the scary face!’ about one hundred times in a single hour. Geralt has. Had. Enough.</p>
<p>“This ends now,” he vows, dragging Jaskier upstairs by the back of his shirt. “I am not your fucking guard.”</p>
<p>“It’s not like I ask them to come after me!” Jaskier protests. “What do you want me to do? Never fall in love again?”</p>
<p>“I don’t care who you love, as long as you do so quietly and chastely.”</p>
<p>Jaskier scoffs. “What, you want me to be celibate for the next fifty years?”</p>
<p>“Yes, that sounds fair, do that.”</p>
<p>“Wh—Geralt! Wha—! How dare—! You be celibate, too, then!”</p>
<p>“Fine.”</p>
<p>“Fine!”</p>
<p>“<em>Fine</em>.”</p>
<p>Which is how Geralt finds himself in a new sort of predicament.</p>
<p>Even before that argument, Jaskier hadn’t actually been throwing himself at anyone. Sure, he’d flirted with anything that moved, but most of that was part of his performance. He’s never smelled like other people, even if he sometimes smelled like lust and sex—not that Geralt made a habit of smelling him. He just… kept an eye on him. Gods know what sort of trouble Jaskier might get into if Geralt didn’t keep him in line.</p>
<p>But now that the gauntlet has been thrown, that the line has been drawn, it seems that Jaskier is holding a grudge. It’s like he’s going out of his way to be randy every fucking minute. He <em>stinks</em> of it. He doesn’t say anything, but the combative look on his face whenever Geralt turns to ask that he please, for Melitele’s sake, do something about that, is enough.</p>
<p>He even starts working it into his performance, singing ardent love songs and fucking <em>addressing them to Geralt. </em>Once, he turns and advances on Geralt in the middle of it all, aggressively strumming his lute with an absolutely unholy glee on his face while the crowd watches enthusiastically, half of them fearing for Jaskier’s life, the other half much too interested in the proceedings. Geralt makes a tactical retreat. No, it isn’t running away. It is a <em>tactical. Retreat</em>.</p>
<p>Then, one morning, he wakes to Jaskier squirming in his arms. (There’s a perfectly valid reasons he’s got his arms around Jaskier, one being that it is cold and they’re outside. Also, they’ve come this far, Geralt isn’t going to let him freeze to death now, not after enduring his company for this long). Jaskier’s still asleep, in the grip of a dream that leaves him smelling musky-sweet and warm, and he’s thrusting his hips forward, little, barely-there movements that wakes Geralt up at once.</p>
<p>He’s about to push Jaskier away when the man himself wakes up. He wriggles and smacks his lips, presses back into Geralt’s hardness. (It’s <em>the morning</em>. You try being around a passive-aggressively amorous bard all day and not get a little pent up. This has nothing to do with Jaskier or his firm thighs—which Geralt hasn’t been looking at, they’re just hard not to notice when Jaskier rides around on Greg without a saddle, using only his legs to stay seated. They’re quite. Hmm. Strong).</p>
<p>And Jaskier still. Doesn’t. Stop. Wriggling.</p>
<p>Right as Geralt is about to roll away, Jaskier glances over his should and cheekily says, “A hand, perchance?”</p>
<p>Not happening. Geralt isn’t going to. Jaskier can take his stupid, morning-rough voice, his strong legs, and welcoming scent and fuck off into the bushes to take care of himself like a normal person. This is <em>his </em>mess.</p>
<p>Geralt sighs.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s hair tickles his nose. His scent is really strong. And he’s still rocking his hips a little, and his hand is on Geralt’s hand above his chest, and he’s smirking at Geralt in challenge and—</p>
<p>Geralt puts his hands down Jaskier’s pants.</p>
<p>This is a one-time deal only. This is <em>not </em>going to become a habit.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It becomes a habit.</p>
<p>All the way up the mountain, if there’s a quiet moment and the least bit of cover from the weather, Jaskier is attached to him by his mouth or his hands. The first time Jaskier kisses him in the middle of things, Geralt bites him (accidentally. But also not). It does not produce the result Geralt expects; Jaskier doesn’t flinch. He moans.</p>
<p>Which… is a thing. Not a thing that Geralt finds enticing, but a thing. That is maybe a little… <em>interesting</em>. To other people, not Geralt, of course. He’s just the one who gets to see it. And feel it. And—</p>
<p>Geralt gives up keeping his hands off the bard after that. They’re husbands. This is a fair trade off, isn’t it? This thing between them doesn’t violate the whole celibacy compromise, no one is going to get into hot water because of this. They’re being smart, for once in this damned mess of a marriage.  </p>
<p>Besides, a satisfied Jaskier is an agreeable Jaskier.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, yes, <em>yesyesyesyesyes</em>—” he chants as Geralt sucks him down. It’s so bitingly cold by now, they haven’t even dressed down for the night. Geralt sleeps in his leather armour most nights, Jaskier in every scrap of clothing he has with him. Getting their hands on each other has grown more difficult, especially with how impatient they both are; tonight, he’s just pulled Jaskier’s pants and underpants down, and that’s it for foreplay. It’s too bloody cold for that.</p>
<p>(He does kiss Jaskier’s thighs first though, and rubs his hands on his hips to keep him warm, and leaves marks on his belly with his teeth which he soothes with his tongue, and—)</p>
<p>“Ah, <em>fuck</em>, Geralt—”</p>
<p>He sucks harder at the head of Jaskier’s cock, pulling whines from him. Geralt hasn’t done this a lot—not because he hasn’t wanted to, but because the whores he sees most often simply don’t have cocks, and for a long time he was with Yennefer, so he hasn’t really had the chance to practice. Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind though, and he has absolutely no compulsions about instructing Geralt on how to please him.</p>
<p>It’s just… easy, to be with him like this.</p>
<p>And if Geralt wants more than they have the space and opportunity for, well. That’s for him to know and never talk about. If he keeps returning to Jaskier’s thighs and tracing them with his tongue, wanting to spread them wide and bury his face between them, that’s no one’s business but his. (But maybe later, when they’ve got a room and a door and the opportunity to get fully undressed, then maybe…)</p>
<p>When Jaskier comes, he has his hands in Geralt’s hair and his head thrown back against the bedroll. Like this, in the midst of pleasure, his voice goes low like it does when he’s being serious. He doesn’t use that voice with anyone else, doesn’t even let it out when he sings, and it… does things to Geralt.</p>
<p>Geralt swallows and wipes his mouth at the back of his hand, crawling up to kiss Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier kisses back half-heartedly, still a little out of it (is that pride in his chest? Hmm), hands running over Geralt’s chest towards his pants.</p>
<p>“Come on, love, that’s it, how’d’you want me? On my back? On my belly?” he slurs into Geralt’s kiss, calloused fingers tracing the questions into Geralt’s skin, circling around his hardness. He can’t think. Why is Jaskier trying to make him think?</p>
<p>They end up on their sides, Geralt behind Jaskier, his cock between his thighs. It’s rough—they don’t have anything to slick the way, nothing but spit, and it’s not nearly enough, but it’s warm, and Jaskier’s <em>clenching, </em>and Geralt’s never felt so good.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s got Geralt’s leather breastplate pressed against his back. It cannot possibly be comfortable, but he presses back into Geralt’s body, nonetheless. Traces the tips of his fingers across the head of Geralt’s cock when it nudges against his balls, turns his head so Geralt can bite his ear, and moans and arches when Geralt grazes over his hole and that’s—</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>“I know, I know, I know, soon, love, soon—”</p>
<p>It can’t in any way be as good for him as it is for Geralt, but with how he writhes, it’s easy to believe, and that’s just… hmm.</p>
<p>Geralt leaves finger-shaped bruises on Jaskier’s hips and ass and paints him with his spend, slicking the channel between Jaskier’s thighs. <em>Soon</em>. The word hums through him. Soon they’ll… go further? Soon, Jaskier will let him see him in all his glory? Will let Geralt touch him as long as he wants?</p>
<p>Doesn’t matter.</p>
<p>Just.</p>
<p><em>Soon</em>.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>With each step closer to Kaer Morhen, Geralt misses Ciri more.</p>
<p>On the road, he’s used to supressing it. She’s his daughter in everything but blood, but to protect her, he often strays far from her. The war with Nilfgaard looms on the horizon, and despite popular assumption that the Lion Cub died with Cintra, Nilfgaardian spies and assassins still make regular attempts to locate her. Whatever else may be said of Emperor Emhyr, he’s not one to listen to rumours, and nor does he rest idly.</p>
<p>If only the enemy was less cautious and more stupid.</p>
<p>That way, Geralt could spend more time with her. Instead, the White Wolf who won the Princess from Destiny walks the Witcher’s Path alone, drawing prying eyes away from her. If she isn’t at Kaer Morhen with Vesemir, she’s with Yennefer; no matter where she lays her head, there’s always a portal at the ready nearby, leading to a number of bolt holes scattered across the continents.</p>
<p>It’s powerful magic, keeping a portal static and stable and secure for that long; a number of mages from Aretuza had helped Yennefer build it, mages whom Geralt only reluctantly trusted (except Triss, but Triss has proven herself time and time again).</p>
<p>Now, so close to home, Geralt imagines he might catch her scent on the wind, hear her clear voice trickling down from the keep near the mountain top. He urges Jaskier faster, cuts their breaks shorter, talks less. He just wants to get home.</p>
<p>(Also, there’s Lambert, Eskel, Vesemir, and Yennefer. Maybe Coën, if he’s made the journey this year. But Ciri is the most important. They all get that).</p>
<p>And Geralt is taking Jaskier right to her.</p>
<p>For all that he’s gotten to know the man over the past month and a half, Jaskier is still a bit of a wild card. Sure, he can’t lie for shit—or maybe it’s just that he hasn’t tried, that blip with ‘cousin Kasjier’ doesn’t count—and he says and does whatever is on his mind at any given moment, but still. Still. Witchers are not a trusting lot. Geralt even less.</p>
<p>He’s still bringing him. Geralt had decided to do so weeks ago, before he even told Geralt about himself.</p>
<p>That’s… hmm.</p>
<p>“You’re quiet,” Jaskier observes.</p>
<p>“Hmm.”</p>
<p>Rather than roll his eyes as many have done when Geralt gets like this, Jaskier drapes himself over his shoulders, obnoxiously nuzzling into Geralt’s neck. “A copper for your thoughts?”</p>
<p>“You don’t have any coppers.”</p>
<p>“That’s—accurate. But it was metaphorical anyway and you know it. Come onnn. No sharing with your best friend in the whole wide world?”</p>
<p>“We’re not friends.” And Yennefer is his best friend in the whole wide world, but he doesn’t say that. Jaskier gets hung up on those kinds of things.</p>
<p>“Oh, oh, really? You just let anyone put your cock in their mouths and rub camomile on your lovely bottom?”</p>
<p>Geralt valiantly restrains himself from saying ‘whores’. Both because it’s untrue (no whores have ever rubbed oil into his skin the way Jaskier does), and because such a comment <em>will </em>get him cuffed around the head. Jaskier may be semi-human, but he’s not weak, and he’s also brave (foolish) enough to poke a Witcher.</p>
<p>Still, the sentiment must show on Geralt’s face, because Jaskier narrows his eyes and peels off from around Geralt’s shoulders to go rifle through their saddlebags for food. Geralt’s hands twitch in his direction, as they so often do now. Geralt frowns at them: they need to stop doing that.</p>
<p>Later, when Jaskier is muffling his moans into Geralt’s neck, Geralt apologizes the only way he knows, with touch and kisses and attentiveness to Jaskier’s needs. He doesn’t know why he apologizes at all. He didn’t say anything. Jaskier wasn’t even mad. If anything, he was delighted that he could read Geralt’s thoughts so plainly, even if they weren’t complimentary.</p>
<p>Hmm.</p>
<p>“Geralt, if you don’t stop making that face, I’m going to start being attracted to it, and then I’ll have to suffer with desire every hour of the day, because you make that face <em>a lot</em>, do you want me to suffer, Geralt? Are you truly so mean, dear husband? Gods, I’ve married a brute. Kiss me, sweet brute. Geralt! How dare you withhold kisses from me! I’m your husband!”</p>
<p>“Thought I was a brute.”</p>
<p>“<em>Geralt</em>!”</p>
<p>If Jaskier doesn’t get that finger out of Geralt’s face, he’s going to bite it.</p>
<p>… he might bite it anyway. Jaskier’s pretty eyes get so wide when Geralt sucks on his fingers.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Geralt gets rudely awoke in the middle of the night by Greg lying down on the other side of Jaskier. He usually does his own thing when they’re not riding, seemingly not affected by the weather at all, a skill he hasn’t imbued in Jaskier—also, Roach is still likely to snap at him if he gets too close. On the coldest nights, she allows it, if only for the extra warmth.</p>
<p>Geralt glares at the unicorn over Jaskier’s shoulder. The beast looks placidly back. Its horn is coming along nicely, a fine spiral of bone near silver in colour. Jaskier says unicorn horns dissolve quickly once shed, leaving no trace behind. Hard to prove their existence when you have nothing to show for it.</p>
<p>Geralt squints. Does Greg have more eyes than usual? Or is it the dying flames from the fire casting shadows? Could go either way, really.</p>
<p>That’s a worry for tomorrow.</p>
<p>“Bite me and die,” he warns and pulls Jaskier closer.</p>
<p>Greg happily nuzzles his hair. Geralt resigns himself to his fate.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Y'ALL ARE TOO KIND TO ME PLZ ACCEPT MY LOVE</p>
<p>also: of course i had to name the unicorn greg, don't blame me, blame joey batey</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello lovelives! here's the next chapter; the one after that may be a while coming, i've got a busy few days ahead of me. y'all take care now and please accept one hundred thousand kisses for being absolutely amazing and wonderful, i appreciate your kudos, bookmarks, and comments so, so much </p>
<p>disclaimer: i know Lambert has brown hair in the game/books(?), but he's being portrayed by Paul Bullion in the TV series and have you seen that man's hair? GLORIOUS</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They’ve made good time up the mountain—not the least because Jaskier hadn’t had to walk the trail himself, being carried by Greg across passages that even Geralt had needed to dismount for. The unicorn is nimble as a mountain goat; it is its one saving grace. Must be because of his cloven hooves.</p>
<p>“I’m nervous. Are you nervous? I mean, of course they’re all going to adore me, I’m a gift to this world, but stage fright is a real thing, not that I have it often, of course—”</p>
<p>“Jaskier.”</p>
<p>“Your lack of inflection harms my very soul, I want you to know that—oh.”</p>
<p>The keep has come into view. Good timing, too; it’s just started snowing.</p>
<p>Geralt hides a smile at Jaskier’s pleasing reaction. These days, the partially destroyed fortress is more of a home than it ever was when Geralt was growing up. The defensive wall is pockmarked with holes; beyond the gate is the eternally messy courtyard, and then, the towering keep that looms above it all. A few windows are missing, as well as a wall here and there.</p>
<p>Still, it’s home. As much as Witchers have a home. (Though privately, Geralt will admit that Yennefer putting her foot down and demanding that Ciri gets to live with her in ‘a proper house, for Melitele’s sake’ in Temeria for most of the year was wise. Witchers can teach you how to fight and survive, but all those little intricacies of human society are lost to them, and Ciri is, despite everything, very much human).</p>
<p>Geralt urges Roach faster.</p>
<p>Unexpectedly, it’s not Vesemir who meets them in the courtyard. The old Witcher usually likes to keep an eye out for the younger ones, but today, it’s Lambert’s devilish smirk that greets them. Geralt dismounts and greets him with a hefty slap on the back. His enthusiasm (and yes, that is his version of enthusiasm, thank you, Jaskier) dims a little when Ciri doesn’t come running.</p>
<p>“They’re not here yet. Something about a mage summit,” Lambert says, attention only half on Geralt. He squints, hand moving towards the dagger at his belt. “What the fuck is that?”</p>
<p>Geralt glances over his shoulder to where Jaskier is stalling for time by prattling at Greg. Roach watches long-sufferingly. “<em>That </em>is my husband.”</p>
<p>“Not what I meant, but we will be revisiting that, what the fuck, Geralt? I meant the <em>horse.</em>”</p>
<p>That does make better sense. Geralt sighs. “That’s Greg. He’s a unicorn.”</p>
<p>“A uni—”</p>
<p>“<em>Did someone say ‘unicorn’?</em>” Eskel yells from the roof. Why is he on the roof? Is it leaking again? Could be, but Geralt hopes not. The roof is the worst part to fix. The only worse chore is unearthing and cooking the fermented fish.  </p>
<p>“Great. Look what you did, Geralt. Now we have to suffer goats <em>and </em>a unicorn <em>and </em>that funny little man you’ve brought.”</p>
<p>“Goat?”</p>
<p>“<em>Goats</em>. Plural. Started with one, but Eskel worried it would get lonely, so now we have a whole flock of the little shits. Now, back to the important part: you have a husband. Who has a unicorn. If I had to guess which one was the lie, I’d go with the first one. What the fuck did you do?”</p>
<p>Well, if he’d let Geralt get a word in, maybe he’d tell him, but Lambert likes the sound of his own voice about as much as Jaskier does. Best let him run out of steam a little.</p>
<p>“He’s not my real husband,” Geralt finally gets in, but then Jaskier steps closer. Lambert’s nostrils flare, and a look of faux outrage lights up his face.</p>
<p>“Riiiiiight. That smells completely un-real. What’d you do, bathe him in your c—”</p>
<p>“I’m his real husband, don’t listen to him,” Jaskier cuts in. Geralt is glaring at Lambert; the little shit doesn’t know how close his face is to being introduced to Geralt’s fist. “There was a ceremony, an officiant, and we swore undying love, right, dear husband?”</p>
<p>“No. And we were forced,” Geralt maintains. “It doesn’t count.”</p>
<p>“I think you’ll find that most every marriage amongst nobility is forced in some manner or other, whether for the bastard growing in their mother’s belly, or for land, or for money. Law of Surprise is hardly the worst kind of force in the world. Now, introduce me.”</p>
<p>“He’s standing right there.”</p>
<p>“… was that a hint for me to introduce myself? Geralt, have you no manners, were you raised by wolve—don’t smirk at me!” He’s pointing at Geralt again, his other hand on his hip.</p>
<p>“This is amusing,” Lambert says, completely deadpan. “I’m very amused right now and not at all impatient to know what the fuck is going on.”</p>
<p>At that moment, however, Eskel comes barging into the courtyard, unholy delight on his face as he takes in Greg. It’s more emotion than he usually allows himself around strangers, as the deep scars on one side of his face stretch grotesquely with his smile.</p>
<p>Jaskier stills when he sees him. Both Lambert and Geralt tense. They’ve both got a soft spot for Eskel, the kindest of them all, and Eskel may not look it, but he gets defensive about his scars, and if Jaskier says anything rude, Geralt won’t be able to save him from Lambert’s (or Vesemir’s) wrath.</p>
<p>“Geralt,” he begins, eyes still on Eskel, who has drawn himself up tightly in the face of the bard’s appraisal, “Why didn’t you tell me—”</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>“—that Witchers had a propensity for only training men with glorious hair. Or is there something in the water up here? You, especially, do you use oil to get it this shiny?” The latter is addressed to Lambert, who’s blinking wildly as Jaskier advances on him, raising his hand as if to touch Lambert’s wild, red curls.</p>
<p>The thing is… Geralt isn’t sure if that’s really what Jaskier meant to say or not. He does take an enormous amount of care with his own looks, so who the fuck knows. (Why hasn’t he asked Geralt about his hair, though? Does he not like the silver? It <em>is </em>inhuman, even amongst Witchers, not like Lambert’s red or Eskel’s brown—not that that matters).</p>
<p>Eskel blinks bemusedly. “That’s… not what I expected.”</p>
<p>Jaskier turns and grins. “Well, I could go into detail about your rugged good looks but—”</p>
<p>Geralt catches Jaskier around the waist and throws him over his shoulder. Less talking is definitely needed. His brothers guffaw while Jaskier squawks.</p>
<p>“No flirting, you’re celibate,” he growls.</p>
<p>“Is he though?” Lambert yells after them. “If that’s what you think celibate smells like, you need to go through training again, Geralt!”</p>
<p>Why had he missed Lambert again? Oh, yes. Brain damage. Comes with being a Witcher. They take quite a lot of knocks to the head. That would also explain why Geralt keeps letting himself getting slapped around by Destiny. He likes that theory very much.</p>
<p>“Geralt, my things!” Jaskier protests.</p>
<p>“We’ll come back for them later.”</p>
<p>“Oh. <em>Oh</em>! Are you going to ravish me? Is that why you’re carrying me off like some uncivilized barbarian? If so, proceed—”</p>
<p>“There shall be no ravishing in the wedding bed! Only tender love-making!” Eskel calls. Because he, too, is a little shit. Geralt is going to kick both his brothers’ asses. “Also, can I pet the unicorn?”</p>
<p>As if understanding every word, Greg does the one thing in his life that Geralt will ever respect him for and aggressively demands pets by headbutting Eskel straight into a wall. Jaskier will later claim that his grin was audible, but Geralt will admit no such thing.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Vesemir, when introduced to Jaskier, doesn’t react as badly as Geralt might have feared. Mostly, he just looks between the two of them, rubs his temples, and sighs. Geralt knows that sigh very well. He and Eskel have been the cause of many such a sigh, and Lambert even more.</p>
<p>“You’ll pull your weight,” he says. He eyes Jaskier dubiously. “Maybe the kitchen, during the day?”</p>
<p>Geralt, who has had the… honour of tasting Jaskier’s version of ‘food’ during the past month, slowly but firmly shakes his head at Vesemir.</p>
<p>Jaskier, who is also well aware of his lack of skill, winces. “I can peel potatoes? And chop… if supervised.”</p>
<p>Vesemir sighs.</p>
<p>“Oh, so that’s where Geralt gets it from! He has your eyes, too.” A beat. “That was a joke. Tough crowd, are you?”</p>
<p>Vesemir turns to Geralt. “This is why you don’t fuck with Destiny, boy.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Yennefer, on the other hand, takes one single look at Jaskier when she and Ciri arrive and starts laughing so hard she snorts. It goes on for so long, she has to leave the room still cackling. Geralt glares at her.</p>
<p>When he turns back around, Jaskier and Ciri are staring at each other. Ciri with wonder, Jaskier with relief. She’s grown taller and leaner over the summer, losing some of the baby fat in her cheeks that they’d only just managed to get back on her after her long flight from Cintra, and her hair has grown back down to her shoulders, not the chopped locks Geralt had cut to disguise her the last time he’d brought her out on the Path.</p>
<p>“Hello again, Princess,” Jaskier says, giving a little bow.</p>
<p>“Hello.”</p>
<p>“What,” Geralt cuts in.</p>
<p>Ciri explains, “We met when I was… on the road. Years ago. Dara and I were almost caught and Jaskier, he—he drew them away from us.”</p>
<p>Geralt frowns. Stills. Turns to Jaskier. “You knew about her?”</p>
<p>“Well, of course. One, <em>I was there when you claimed the Law of Surprise, </em>how many times do I have to remind you of that, and two, I’m a very famous bard, Geralt, I get invited places. Like the Cintran court. Princess Cirilla and I aren’t exactly strangers—”</p>
<p>“No, I meant—” Words. Work, damn it. “You knew she was alive. That she was here?”</p>
<p>“The former, yes. The latter? Well. I hoped. I didn’t know how to bring it up in case she wasn’t. It wasn’t a good night when we met. I’m sorry a diversion was all I could give, Princess, truly sorry.”</p>
<p>“It’s alright,” Ciri says. She says that a lot, about a lot of things that aren’t alright. Like the nightmares she has, like the grief she still carries, like the Destiny that weighs heavily on her slight shoulders. Yennefer and Geralt both try to talk to her, but even if Yennefer is better with words than Geralt can ever hope to be, she, too, was raised in an environment that taught her to hold onto her rage, not absolve herself of it. But they try, for Ciri.</p>
<p>Jaskier says it better than they have ever been able to, and he’s barely been here for an hour. “No, it’s not, Princess, but I’m beyond relieved you made it here. Destiny has at least that bit of kindness for those claimed by Geralt.” He looks at Geralt, something soft in his eyes. “Which reminds me: does this make me your step-dad?”</p>
<p>“What? <em>No</em>.”</p>
<p>But Ciri is grinning. “<em>Yes</em>.”</p>
<p>“No,” Geralt insists.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“It was a quiet, moonlit night,” Jaskier narrates as he braids Ciri’s hair. They’re seated in front of the fire; it’s getting late, everybody is tired, and the dishes need scrubbing before the fat of the meal can congeal and stick, but no one is eager to move. Lambert and Eskel find Jaskier oddly interesting, maybe because he beams at them constantly, which is both unnerving and oddly pleasant. Even Vesemir has his head tilted to hear him better.</p>
<p>“And a long, long time ago. I was but a young, naïve boy then, my voice still breaking, and, oh! How innocent I was! How new to the world! I was walking in the forest, down an overgrown path, when I heard a soft tread following in my footsteps. I cursed myself for having ventured out at night and fled to a meadow where the moonlight was a little stronger, and there, I hid behind a fragrant bush—hoping to disguise my scent, you see.</p>
<p>“There I waited with bated breath. And out from amongst the trees, there came a ghostly shape. Dear girl, I was near to fainting. There were talks of monsters in that forest, of things no one could explain. But as I stood there trembling, the shape stepped into the moonlight. And what a sight he was! Like a diamond he shone, his big eyes kind and gentle—”</p>
<p>What a load of horseshit.</p>
<p>“His graceful horn stood straight out from his head, and I knew at once what he was. I knelt in the meadow, barely able to understand how blessed I was to see such a creature, and lo! He came to me, put his head in my lap, and that, my dear, is how I met Greg.”</p>
<p> The worst part of this is that Geralt can’t fucking tell if he’s lying. There’s something off about the rhythm of Jaskier’s heart, but it’s the same as when he performs at an inn, so it <em>could </em>just be excitement.</p>
<p>“Have you ever made a song about that?” Ciri asks. She’d met the beast earlier and had squealed loud enough to make all the Witchers wince. Greg, valuing his life, hadn’t bowled her over, but instead submitted to her curious ministrations.</p>
<p>“Um. No,” Jaskier stutters.</p>
<p>And that’s how Geralt knows that whole story is a lie; there’s nothing in this world that Jaskier won’t make a song about, so if it hasn’t occurred to him yet, it’s because he’s making it up on the spot. Yennefer knows it, too—though she’d probably known from the beginning; she tends to lightly skim people’s minds, a precaution they’ve had to instate after too many close calls. Still, she’d just smiled and refused to tell what she’d found in Jaskier’s mind.</p>
<p>As the fire burns low and Jaskier’s voice starts getting hoarse, Ciri slumps more and more until at last, she yawns widely enough to show off her molars, so Geralt whisks her off to bed. She’s all legs and sharp angles now, no longer as easily held in his arms, but he lifts her nonetheless and carries her to her room. She nuzzles into his shirt, murmuring sleepily.</p>
<p>Geralt darts a quick kiss to her brow. “Sleep, little cub. You can tell me all about your year tomorrow.”</p>
<p>His daughter safely tucked in, he goes to find his husband. There are certain boundaries that need to be established, the most important one being: Ciri is <em>not</em> Jaskier’s daughter. She is Geralt’s, and Yennefer’s (hers and Geralt’s Destinies are twined, that means Geralt gets to share his Child Surprise. He will not, however, be sharing his Husband Surprise, if that ever comes up), and if all goes to shit and Geralt and Yen end up dead, Ciri will be with Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir. Maybe Triss, too. And—wait, when did Ciri acquire so many viable caretakers?</p>
<p>Shit. Maybe Jaskier <em>is </em>a viable parent. That’s a disturbing thought.</p>
<p>The dining hall is abandoned when Geralt gets back; the table has been cleared and he can hear Lambert in the kitchen, cleaning up. Vesemir has likely returned to his study to pour over one of his infernal to-do lists, and Eskel has probably gone outside to ensure the animals are comfortable for the night.</p>
<p>Which means Yen and Jaskier are alone—and unsupervised, and fuck, Geralt walks faster. He loves Yen, he truly does, for her wit, her courage, and her sharp tongue, but it’s just not a good idea to inflict her on the unsuspecting. Jaskier is exactly the kind of idiot most likely to be lulled into a false sense of security by her looks, and if Geralt has to scrape his idiot husband off the wall because he pisses Yen off, he will not be pleased.</p>
<p>He finds them in the laboratory that Yen and Triss use for… whatever sorceresses use laboratories for, he can never get a clear answer on that. Yen is primly seated in her chair, a glass of wine in her hand, and fluttering her lashes at Jaskier like butter won’t melt in her mouth. Jaskier, to his credit, is affecting the exact same kind of polite interest right back. The tension is palpable.</p>
<p>“Yen,” Geralt says, nodding. “Jaskier, come on.”</p>
<p>“We’re just having a drink, Geralt,” Yen assures him. A lie, and a very obvious one. “Leave us be.”</p>
<p>“Go to bed, dear heart, I’ll join you soon,” Jaskier adds, not taking his eyes off Yen.</p>
<p>Whatever is going on here, Geralt wants no part of it. But he also wants Jaskier to survive the night, mostly because if Yen eviscerates him, Destiny will probably get pissy, and that way Geralt will find himself dying in a highly undignified manner just to join his Husband Surprise in the afterlife, and he’d rather not. Jaskier’s getting fifty years, not a damn eternity. That was the deal.</p>
<p>“Hmm.”</p>
<p>“I’ll give him back, don’t worry,” Yennefer promises.</p>
<p>“<em>Hmm</em>.”</p>
<p>“I’m perfectly alright here,” Jaskier assures him.</p>
<p>There’s no way this won’t go wrong.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Five hours later, Geralt is starting to worry that things haven’t just gone wrong, they’ve gone horribly, bloodily wrong. He can just imagine it; going back down the laboratory and finding just ashes where Jaskier had sat, Yen dusting off her skirts and swearing, “He deserved it, Geralt!”</p>
<p>He hasn’t been able to sleep. Even meditation eludes him. He lies awake and listens to the heartbeats of his family, the slow, steady thumps of his fellow Witchers, and Ciri’s quick, darting beat. He strains for Jaskier and Yen, but Yen must have spelled the door to conceal all sounds within.</p>
<p>Before he’d gone to bed, Lambert had quirked a brow and asked why Jaskier wasn’t in his own room if they were only pretending to be husbands. It was clear by his grin that he knew exactly why. But it had gotten Geralt thinking: did Jaskier want his own room? He hadn’t at any of the inns they’d stopped at, but that may have been more about fiscal responsibility than anything. He enjoys Geralt’s body, but… it’s not like they’re friends.</p>
<p>Though Jaskier had said they were. And Jaskier didn’t lie about that. Geralt would’ve known. Jaskier jokes about it, but when he’d first said it, his voice had been low and soft. Serious. He meant it. Geralt just wants to sleep, not have an existential crisis, especially not over his accidental husband.</p>
<p>Who, at that moment, falls through the door.</p>
<p>“Whoopsie!” Yen giggles behind him.</p>
<p>Geralt was right. It has gone horribly wrong. Worse than wrong. They’ve become <em>friends</em>.</p>
<p>“Owww,” Jaskier whines from the floor. “Yenna! Yenna, help me up!”</p>
<p>“Shh, don’t wake Geralt, you’re being loud!”</p>
<p>“<em>You’re</em> being loud—”</p>
<p>“You’re both being loud,” Geralt says.</p>
<p>They both gasp and titter like children. “Oh, nooo. We woke the bear.”</p>
<p>“He’s a <em>wolf, </em>Yenna. A mighty, white wolf, hear him roar—<em>lay noooot your heart against hiiiim</em>—”</p>
<p>It’s clear that Geralt isn’t going to get any peace unless he puts Jaskier to bed himself, so he sighs and gets up, casting <em>Igni </em>to light a candle. He doesn’t need it, but Jaskier might appreciate a bit of light to see by.</p>
<p>It quickly becomes clear, however, that Jaskier wouldn’t notice if the whole keep was on fire. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, his colour is high, and his hair looks like Yen has run her hands through it (she better not have—oh, he doesn’t smell like her. That’s fine then). Melitele, is he drunk. And happy to see Geralt.</p>
<p>“Geralt! My love! I am ready to be wavished!”</p>
<p>“<em>Ravished</em>, Jask,” Yen hisses. Which. What.</p>
<p>“That’s what I said. Ravish me!”</p>
<p>Geralt rolls his eyes. “No.”</p>
<p>“Mean. Meanie. Ruuuuude.”</p>
<p>“So rude,” Yen chimes in.</p>
<p>Geralt glowers at her. She looks seven sheets to the wind, too, much less dignified than she usually allows herself to be perceived as. What, exactly, did Jaskier tell her to get her to relax like that? And what the fuck did they drink?</p>
<p>As Yen skedaddles the second he takes his eyes off her, that question must wait. Jaskier sure as hell can’t answer it; currently, he is distracted by Geralt’s medallion, pawing at the silver like a child with a cookie.</p>
<p>“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” Geralt tells him sternly.</p>
<p>“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” Jaskier mimics and Geralt’s voice does <em>not </em>sound like that. Jaskier only cackles when Geralt informs him of this. And then gets distracted by… the buttons on his doublet? Alright. It is beyond time to go to sleep.</p>
<p>Is this what Vesemir has had to deal with all these years? If so, Geralt owes him a million apologies.</p>
<p>It takes a good deal of wrangling, threats, and whining (from Jaskier), but Geralt finally gets him to bed. Jaskier flops down gracelessly; he is unfortunately not one of those drunks who just pass out when their head hits the pillow, instead wriggling around like a very sharp-edged eel, elbowing Geralt first in the chest, then the stomach, and finally, Geralt has had enough and just restrains Jaskier.</p>
<p>“Huuuuuugs!” Jaskier cheers. “Geralt, lemme hug you back. Geeeeraaaalt.”</p>
<p>“Sleep. Quiet.”</p>
<p>More whining. “Yenna said you’d be like this.”</p>
<p>That’s the most worrying sentence Geralt has ever heard in his life. He eyes Jaskier in the dark. “What.”</p>
<p>“Mmmmm.”</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yeeeeees?”</p>
<p><em>Do not throttle your husband</em>. “What did Yen say?”</p>
<p>Jaskier smacks his lips obnoxiously. “Lotta treats—no, wait, threats. She threatened me. Menaced. In-ti-mi-dated. Aaaaaadmonished. I know words, I know sooo many words, Geralt, did you know that I am a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, you’re so lucky, I’m such a smart husband—”</p>
<p>Geralt does not have the energy to deal with all that right now. “Sleep, Jaskier.”</p>
<p>“M’kay.” A beat. Then, “Where’s my goodnight kisses?”</p>
<p>Melitele fucking help him. He presses a quick kiss to Jaskier’s hair, not unlike what he’d done earlier with Ciri.</p>
<p>Jaskier tuts. “On my <em>lips</em>. Geralt. <em>Geralt</em>. Geralt, do you want me to cry?”</p>
<p>Jaskier is… vibrating? A peek at his face reveals an expression like severe constipation. Then, the smell of salt. Is he—he <em>is</em>. He is forcing himself to cry.</p>
<p>Rolling the idiot over, Geralt kisses him with a growl. He means to be quick, means to just get Jaskier to shut up and go the fuck to sleep. Jaskier has other ideas; he grabs Geralt by the shoulders and kisses back, pulling Geralt on top of him and humming into the kiss. He tastes like wine, and ale from dinner, and some kind of berry vodka—Yennefer must have brought stronger spirits with her, they rarely get that kind of drink this far north.</p>
<p>He’s also falling asleep even as he kisses Geralt, barely more than little pecks now.</p>
<p>One last kiss, and Geralt lets him slip into dreams.</p>
<p>He’s going to have the worst hangover tomorrow and Geralt is going to enjoy every minute of it.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Somehow, Jaskier makes it to breakfast. Not gracefully, by any means, and he’s bent over, facedown on the table and making pitiful noises every time someone’s cutlery clinks against the dishes. Lambert and Eskel appear to be taking bets on how much dishware they might be able to stable on his head.</p>
<p>Ciri puts food in front of him with a long-suffering air, exchanging commiserating glances with Vesemir like they’re the only adults in the room, and Yennefer is drinking steadily from a cup of something foul. “Can’t be hungover if you don’t sober up,” she keeps claiming. “And after the summit yesterday, I deserve a fucking drink. Fucking Stregobor.”</p>
<p>These are the people he entrusts Ciri to. Destiny should’ve checked Geralt’s parenting credentials before assigning him as her ward, because this is about as good as it gets.</p>
<p>“I’m dying,” Jaskier declares.</p>
<p>Geralt, moved by mercy now that he’s gloried a bit in Jaskier’s well-deserved suffering, puts his hand on Jaskier’s neck and draws circles with his fingertips. Jaskier trills happily and leans into it, his own, natural scent rising to overpower the stink of alcohol leaking from his pores. Very, very carefully, Geralt avoids looking at Lambert. Makes the mistake of looking at Eskel. Has to bare his teeth, because Eskel is staring at him.</p>
<p>It is as quiet and peaceful a morning as Kaer Morhen has seen in a long time. And then Ciri interrupts it with, “Is that a goat on the ceiling?”</p>
<p>“No,” Eskel says quickly.</p>
<p>But it is very much a goat on the ceiling. How—no, not Geralt’s problem. If he doesn’t look at the goat, it doesn’t exist. He just keeps breathing deep and slow, inhaling the scent of home and family.  </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>rebloggable on <a href="https://purpurred.tumblr.com/post/621647343673065472/toss-a-coin-to-my-husband-shestepsintotheriver">my tumblr</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>you are all so incredibly lovely i can barely contain myself so let me express it in exclamation marks: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</p>
<p>i think it's gonna be one more chapter and that's it for this little tale, thank u all so much for joining me and showing your appreciation!</p>
<p>warnings:<br/>- sex<br/>- Geralt being clueless</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They settle into a routine. Jaskier, too, falls in with it as if this is his twelfth winter at the keep, not the first, and the seamlessness with which he fits himself into their routine leaves all the Witchers (except Geralt, who’s already experienced Jaskier’s tenacity) baffled.</p>
<p>During the day, Geralt and his brothers hunt, repair the parts of the keep that are threatening to crumble, clean, and stock up on firewood for the long months to come. In between, they help Vesemir with Ciri’s training. Yennefer, too, is charged with fortification, and when she’s not instructing Ciri in magic, she’s brewing potions down in the laboratory or keeping an eye on Jaskier in the kitchen. He is very much a danger to himself when left unsupervised with a knife, and Eskel has already come running a couple of times to tell Geralt things like ‘he was left alone for five seconds, and now there is tomato splatters everywhere. I didn’t even know we had tomatoes.’</p>
<p>For the sake of everyone’s sanity and continued health, Jaskier gets sent to the stables when there’s no one to keep an eye on him, and surprisingly, he wins the affection of the animals quickly. Even Eskel’s infernal goats, led by a tiny, little kid called Lil’ Bleater. (Eskel spoils her rotten and Jaskier is no better. Who the hell brings a goat inside to cuddle with? Next thing they know, Greg might be allowed inside.)</p>
<p>(Actually, that is a real concern).  </p>
<p>Yennefer and Jaskier have settled into an unholy friendship that keeps everyone on their toes and seems to mostly revolve around insulting each other one moment, then conspire together the next. They both seem happy, so Geralt doesn’t get involved. (No, it’s not because he’s scared, fuck you, Lambert). They disappear with Ciri often, and when they come back, none of them will say what they’ve been doing; whatever it is, it makes Ciri glow, like the first time both Vesemir and Geralt had praised her during training.</p>
<p>The days pass quickly, and soon a fortnight has gone by, and the snow now reaches up to Geralt’s knee. The sun sinks faster at the end of the day, the fire draws them home sooner, and bedtime beckons earlier and earlier.</p>
<p>And then there are the nights.</p>
<p>The ‘soon’ that Jaskier had promised has come. Every night, he sheds his many, <em>many </em>layers of clothing (Geralt’s husband does not relinquish fashion despite the cold, he just adds more pieces to keep him warm), walking back and forth in front of their bed where he’d sat Geralt down and then danced out of reach. Geralt follows him hungrily with his eyes, already nude himself and more than impatient to get started.</p>
<p>Jaskier will stifle his sounds to keep the whole keep from overhearing them, and Geralt will kiss the breathless laughter from his lips as he moves in him. Jaskier’s legs around his hips, Jaskier on top of him, Jaskier pressed against him. He likes it best when he can rest his entire weight against Jaskier’s back, pressing him flat against the bed, so that when Geralt snaps his hips, Jaskier can do nothing except take it and moan and urge him on. He smells so sweet like this. He smells like <em>Geralt’s</em>.</p>
<p>Geralt smells like his, too.</p>
<p>“What’s it like?” Geralt asks one night. His head is resting on the small of Jaskier’s back, and his arms are around his waist. From here, the gentle rise of Jaskier’s broad shoulders seem mountainous. He’s lost a little weight on the way here, narrowing the rounded swells of his arms; privately, Geralt plots to get him eat more. “Being taken like this?”</p>
<p>Jaskier ponders the question for a moment, the tip of his tongue sticking out as he thinks. “I don’t know,” he admits, sounding a little annoyed at saying so. “Were I to sing of it, I’d embellish it for the sake of being clearly understood, but to tell you the absolute truth, it’s not so easy to describe. It feels… full, and <em>good</em>, and there’s a stretch at first, but then there’s not really, except yes, there is, and I can feel where we’re connected, and even though I also feel, <em>intimately</em>, just how you hit every spot that’ll set me alight inside, I still can’t tell where you end and I begin. Does that make sense?”</p>
<p>A little, but not a lot. Maybe that’s why Geralt ends up on his back with his thighs slightly spread (he’s not trembling. He’s <em>not</em>), Jaskier curled around his side, hand in his hair as he presses kisses to Geralt’s jaw. That hand moves downwards then, over Geralt’s chest where it cups and squeezes, over his belly where Jaskier digs his fingers in, not cruelly, but possessively, making Geralt writhe, and further, brushing against Geralt’s cock. Despite his reservations, that part of him is firmly and stubbornly on board.</p>
<p>He flinches at the first pass of fingers over his thighs.</p>
<p>“It’s alright, love,” Jaskier whispers. “You’re doing so well, so good for me.”</p>
<p>Deep breath. Geralt lets his legs fall open.</p>
<p>To call the feeling indescribable is to simplify it. There’s oil on Jaskier’s fingers, slicking the way, but still Geralt’s first instinct is to snap his legs closed and shy away for the first few (many? Feels like many) minutes. Even one finger feels unnatural, as if his body is saying, ‘no, that’s not supposed to be here, <em>get it</em> <em>out</em>’.</p>
<p>Jaskier notices and pulls away. Geralt catches his wrist. “No, keep going.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?”</p>
<p>No? Maybe. Possibly? “Yes.”</p>
<p>“Kiss me?” Geralt does. “You need to bear down, love. <em>Good</em>.”</p>
<p>After two fingers, it gets easier. The stretch doesn’t feel so awkward, and he gets used to the feeling of being open around Jaskier’s fingers. It even starts to feel good, the pleasure so subtle that he doesn’t notice he’s pushing back until suddenly, he moans, a bolt of lightning shooting through him.</p>
<p>Jaskier adds another finger. The <em>sound</em> it makes—the squelch of the oil, the slap of his palm. Geralt bends his knees up, plants his feet. His hands are clenched in the bedding on either side of his hips.</p>
<p>“Touch yourself, come on, love, that’s it—”</p>
<p>He’d meant to let Jaskier inside him, but it’s over too soon. Jaskier’s fingers inside him, Jaskier’s voice in his ear, and his smell in his nose; one moment, Geralt’s staring down the precipice, the next he’s falling. Jaskier was right; it is like feeling everything and yet not at all. Like the sweat running down his temples, the rawness of his throat, the cool air caressing his skin, and the cum splattering on his belly. Most of all, Jaskier beside him, Jaskier with him, Jaskier under his skin.</p>
<p>Geralt comes back down to uneven breaths against his jaw, sloppy kisses and a waterfall of praise pressed into his skin. Jaskier’s pulled his fingers out, is now resting his oil-covered hand against Geralt’s thigh. It feels like a brand and Geralt weakly pushes into it.</p>
<p>The candle has gone out. The stillness of the keep echoes above the sound of their heavy breaths. In the dark, Geralt can see Jaskier perfectly; in the dark, Jaskier wears no mask. There’s wonder on his face, soft and pained both, his brows scrunched together, his eyes closed. He isn’t hard—but then, Geralt had already had him twice in a row before this.</p>
<p>Geralt traces his nose up Jaskier’s cheek, inhaling deeply. Their lips catch, trade slow and almost chaste kisses.</p>
<p>If the world stopped now, and this was the moment he had to live in forever, Geralt wouldn’t mind much. Wouldn’t mind at all.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Lambert being the first person they encounter the next morning does ruin Geralt’s good mood a bit, since the first thing his brother does is comment on the spring in Jaskier’s step. “You two have fun last night? Sure sounded like you were having fun. You know, because of the acoustics and the thin walls. I’m so glad my niece doesn’t have advanced hearing.”</p>
<p>Geralt takes a threatening step forward. The rule about overhearing others in Kaer Morhen is that you don’t talk about it. Growing up, privacy was limited, so the next morning you just made less eye-contact and ignored that everyone present knew how you sounded when getting yourself off. Because that was the <em>polite </em>thing to do, <em>Lambert. </em></p>
<p>Jaskier, however, is undaunted. “If you’re so concerned with the fun we’re having, how about a demonstration?” He grabs Geralt by the jaw and proceeds to absolutely ravish him right there in the hallway. There are definitely some wandering hands. They may be Geralt’s.</p>
<p>When they come up for air, Lambert’s mouth is open in surprise and disgust. “That’s my <em>brother</em>, fuck, I can’t even look at you right now!” And he’s off, muttering abuse under his breath and throwing outraged looks at them over his shoulder. For someone who loudly details his exploits and gleefully turns serious situations into something vaguely sexual, he’s got an odd sense of propriety in the strangest moments.  </p>
<p>Jaskier just cackles and bounces toward the dining hall. Geralt follows in his wake, feeling very relaxed and content with the world.</p>
<p>(At breakfast, both Eskel and Lambert tells him to “stop grinning, it’s unsettling, your daughter is right there, you monster!”</p>
<p>To which Ciri says, “It’s okay. I know what sex is.”</p>
<p>“We’ve had the talk,” Yennefer says with all the dignity of a governess. “This right here, darling, is a perfect example of the restorative effects of a good fu—”</p>
<p>Lil’ Bleater bleats at just the right moment.</p>
<p>Vesemir studiously ignores all of them. Geralt <em>wishes</em> he could ignore all of them.)</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Speaking of Ciri; the girl has started to wander the keep in the small hours. Geralt lies awake and listens to her soft tread, worrying fretfully. Yennefer, too, has noticed Ciri’s unease, but there’s nothing either of them can think to do. Sometimes, Ciri just gets… sad. There’s no other word for it that he can think of, even if ‘sad’ doesn’t encompass all that Ciri feels in these times.</p>
<p>The world rests so heavily on her. She sometimes hears the voice of a long-dead prophetess in her head, she remembers her city burning, her loved ones dead or dying, she has been and is still hunted throughout the Continent, and some nights, she has dreams of shadowy figures carrying her off. After those, she always trains hard and says little. Geralt can only watch helplessly; even when he tries to talk to her, it feels like combating raging wildfire with just one glass of water.</p>
<p>He doesn’t expect Jaskier to take an interest. Foolish of him, in hindsight.</p>
<p>One night, he wakes to find himself alone. For a moment he fumbles across the bed for his husband’s warm skin, eyes still closed. Coming to a little more, he stretches his senses further until his ears catch the soft sound of two voices, one low and a little husky, the other clear and sweet. Accompanied by quiet whickers, it’s clear that they are in the stables.</p>
<p>Wrapping a cloak around himself (and a pair of trousers), Geralt goes to find them.</p>
<p>He finds them surrounded by sleepy animals, goats and horses both. Eskel’s goats and his horse, Scorpion, Ciri’s black mare called Kelpie, Roach, and Lambert and Vesemir’s mounts, Horse and Aella. Two guesses as to who named Lambert’s horse.</p>
<p>There’s also Greg, much as Geralt would rather ignore him. It’s a little bit difficult when the first thing he does when he spots Geralt is whinny loudly enough to wake the whole keep. He eagerly trots up to Geralt and stretches his neck out for scratches, which Geralt gives long-sufferingly. Thankfully, he has stopped headbutting people; his horn is now almost a foot in length and there’d have been a lot of life-threatening injuries if he hadn’t learned to tone it down.</p>
<p>“Hello, dear heart. Did we wake you?” Jaskier greets, tilting his head back and puckering his lips in demand.</p>
<p>“No.” Geralt gives him a quick peck. Looking between Ciri and Jaskier, he decides to seat himself on the other side of Ciri; she’s not wearing much clothing, and while it’s not freezing in the stables, it’s still cool, and she could use the extra warmth. Besides, Greg is cuddling up to Jaskier; he’ll keep warm enough on his own.</p>
<p>“I was telling Ciri about the night we first met,” Jaskier says, still soft and low. “About how dashing you looked in your silks, how grumpily you ate your dinner, and how winningly I arrived on the scene—”</p>
<p>“When you spilled wine—”</p>
<p>“I told you to stop remembering that, that’s not what happened, Ciri, you mustn’t listen to him! As I was saying…”</p>
<p>On Jaskier’s tongue, the tale of Princess Pavetta’s betrothal banquet is almost like a fairy-tale. Geralt has told her about that night before… though in very few words, and not much beyond the pure basics of how he came to claim the Law of Surprise. Calanthe never told Ciri any of it, not even her parents’ wedding; from the wonder on Ciri’s face, it’s been sorely missed.</p>
<p>In the story, Calanthe’s tempestuous nature is painted as protective; Jaskier doesn’t erase her cunning and anger, but he doesn’t berate her for it either, a rare feat in any story of a flawed woman. Pavetta’s courage and love shines brightly through the tale, as does Duny’s bravery and manners in the face of adversity. Joining them are Eist Tuirseach, who came to Duny’s aid and won the heart of the queen; Mousesack’s whose humour and wisdom calmed the troubled waters; and in the midst of it all, there’s Geralt, spectator and protector, the unlikely hero (though calling him that is such a stretch it may as well be a lie, but try telling Jaskier that).</p>
<p>In the end, there’s Ciri, the last and most important part of it all.</p>
<p>Slowly, Geralt realizes that Jaskier’s not just trying to distract Ciri; he’s giving her back a piece of her history, allowing her to understand it and claim it as her own, not just as something that was thrust upon her. The Law of Surprise is twofold; first, it must be called, but then, <em>it must also be accepted, </em>or the claim is void. The latter is a part often forgotten, even by Geralt, who was himself a Child Surprise (but that was long ago). Ciri had wordlessly accepted his claim when she ran to him in the forest, but did she know that then? Now, she does.</p>
<p>As Jaskier’s tale comes to a close, Ciri leans against Geralt, her eyes having grown heavy. Her scent is slowly changing, muted sorrow giving way just a little. Jaskier hasn’t roused her from it; only time and Ciri herself can heal those wounds, and some might never fully close. But here, now, the world seems lighter, less troubled by the things waiting in the dark.</p>
<p>Geralt rests his head against Ciri’s, and they all sit silently for a while, watching the dozing animals and listening to the far-off, muted howls of the mountain wolves. The snow outside distorts all sounds, making things seem almost dream-like.</p>
<p>When Ciri speaks, Geralt startles a little. “Geralt?”</p>
<p>“Hmm?” (He ignores Jaskier’s delight at him using inflection).</p>
<p>A beat. “Can I have an axe? Like the one hung above the fireplace in the dining hall?”</p>
<p>Geralt blinks at the non sequitur. That’s an… odd request. That axe is quite big and unwieldy as fuck, even for him, but if Ciri’s asking for it… it is the first thing she’s asked for in a week, the first words she’s spoken in days, and her eyes are all big and pleading, so maybe—</p>
<p>Jaskier is shaking his head at him. Geralt frowns at him. Jaskier widens his eyes. Geralt chuffs. Jaskier jerks his head at Ciri and shakes his head some more. Geralt frowns harder. Jaskier does not get to order him around; if Geralt wants to give Ciri an axe, he’ll give her a fucking axe, even if the thing is way too big for her, he’ll just have to teach her (and get Vesemir to teach him first, because the last time Geralt took it off the wall, Lambert had nearly lost an arm. Geralt had been aiming for his fingers).</p>
<p>But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Maybe. When you’re older.”</p>
<p>Ciri harrumphs. “I know that’s just a nice way of saying ‘no’.”</p>
<p>“How about a smaller axe,” Jaskier suggests, bumping their shoulders together. “Or better yet! <em>Throwing </em>axes.”</p>
<p>Oh, yes, that’s much better, there’s definitely no way that can go wrong. If Geralt’s hair wasn’t already silver, it’d be paling right this second. Ciri is becoming a fine swordswoman, and she’s skilled with a bow. <em>But</em> she’s only been training for a couple of years; when she throws things, it’s mostly because she’s getting impatient, and her aim then is… lacking.</p>
<p>But Ciri purses her lips in considerations and decides, “That’s acceptable.”</p>
<p>At that moment, Yennefer comes in. “Geralt, I always knew you preferred the company of horses to that of other people, but do you really need to drag your husband and child into it also?”</p>
<p>“Yenna!” Ciri enthuses. “Geralt says I can get an axe!”</p>
<p>Geralt in no way said that, but before he can defend himself, Yen turns on him. “Not like the monstrosity in the hall, right?”</p>
<p>“See!” Jaskier yells.</p>
<p>Why has Destiny afflicted him with these people? It’s cruel and unusual punishment is what it is—even if Ciri is so warm and trusting against him, even if Jaskier looks at him with soft, blue eyes, and even if Yennefer laughs freely here…</p>
<p>… maybe it’s not the worst thing that could’ve happened to him.  </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>As winter grows stronger, going outside becomes less and less viable, until finally, the snow blankets the world outside so heavily that Geralt is in danger of disappearing entirely when he steps outside. They’ve dug a shallow trench to the stables, the privy, the well, and the caves where the bigger baths are, but as time passes, the latter is maintained less and less, and the baths are quick affairs taken in one’s room in wooden tubs.</p>
<p>Nearly a week in, the Witchers start to go stir crazy. There’s not a lot of space for training properly—the halls they once used for this purposed are in the collapsed part of the keep, and the only space big enough is the dining hall, one of the only places they keep a fire burning all the time, and thus also the place where they all congregate. They do train a bit, but not as much as they need to expel their energy.</p>
<p>Geralt longs to go outside. He even misses being on a job, misses the aches of his body after a hard day’s work. Never mind that he usually doesn’t have the urge to deal with bad-tempered and/or prejudiced employers when he can avoid it.</p>
<p>It’s common for all of them to miss the Path in times like these, though. Most of the year—most of their <em>lives</em>—the Path is all they have. Being away from it is both a blessing and a disruption. They are Witchers. They are built to endure the things men cannot. And now they’re stuck inside.</p>
<p>Eskel spends a lot of time either reading and taking care of the animals. Lambert snarks at everyone a lot more often, finding the best outlet in Yennefer and Jaskier, as they’re both sharp-tongued enough to keep up with him—though he also tries with Geralt and Eskel and ends up being wrestled to the floor. Younger brothers are a pain. Vesemir does… whatever Vesemir does. The old man has infinite ways to keep himself amused.</p>
<p>Jaskier composes and tries to teach Ciri to dance some kind of quadrille that’s gotten popular in the last year or so; Yennefer can be counted on to call out corrections, even if she refuses to otherwise participate, or else she can be found in front of the fire, reading heavy tomes long gone from all other libraries. Geralt spends a lot of time watching everyone.</p>
<p>His scrutiny is not often appreciated.</p>
<p>“Geralt, if you sigh at me one more time, I’m going to ground you,” Vesemir says.</p>
<p>“Stop looking at Lil’ Bleater like that, she’s shy,” Eskel claims while said goat kicks Geralt in the shins.</p>
<p>“What are you plotting? Are you plotting something? Wanna fight?” Lambert says.</p>
<p>“Are you okay?” Ciri asks. “Do you need to talk to someone?”</p>
<p>“Geralt, get your nose away from that bottle or else,” Yennefer snaps. “Go bother your husband. Melitele’s tits, I don’t know how he has the patience.”</p>
<p>And so, it becomes a habit to observe Jaskier during the day. (Geralt also watches him sometimes during the night. Not a lot. But intently, which he has been informed is “creepy, but I’m into it, so. Did you know your eyes reflect light? Oh, well, I think it should be emphasised again. They’re reflecting at me right now. Don’t you roll your eyes at me!”)</p>
<p>Today is Geralt’s day in the kitchen, and since Jaskier is on seemingly perpetual assistant-duty as his sole chore, it’s just the two of them working side by side. Though currently, it’s mostly Jaskier working; Geralt has paused over the cured meat he’s cutting up for stew and is just looking at his husband as he chants a lot of nonsense at the root vegetables, praising them for having kept so well and maintained their bright orange and purplish colours. He’s bouncing on his toes as he scrubs them.</p>
<p>Before he’s fully aware of moving, Geralt has crossed the room to plaster himself against Jaskier’s back, burying his face in his neck. He smells of happiness; bright, sweet, sharp. Like fresh apples that are tart on the tongue.</p>
<p>“—<em>and starchy-warchy goodness and</em>, oh, hi, hello,” Jaskier warbles, wet hands coming up to squeeze Geralt’s arm and tangle in his hair. He is going to smell like carrots, but he doesn’t much care. He pushes into Jaskier’s hold, kisses his way from his ear (which makes Jaskier giggle involuntarily) to the corner of his mouth where he lingers, jerking back when Jaskier turns to catch his lips. He growls playfully when Jaskier indulges his little game of keep-away.</p>
<p>Jaskier starts pouting, so Geralt takes mercy on him, and they trade deep, drugging kisses as the daylight starts to fade. Jaskier tastes like the dried spices he’s been taste-testing, rosemary and thyme, and the sharp cider he’s grown fond of. His tongue is wet and warm, and when Geralt sucks on it, Jaskier gasps. He’s clinging harder now, nails digging into Geralt’s skin, and he’s swaying his hips oh-so-slowly, barely brushing against Geralt who’s losing more and more sense as the heat between them grows and—</p>
<p>Eskel walks in, heads straight for the pantry. Five seconds later, he’s walking back out with a load of bread under his arm. “Not in the kitchen,” he quips and then he’s gone.</p>
<p>“Just for that, I’m going to let you fuck me in the kitchen,” Jaskier swears.</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>!” they hear.</p>
<p>Jaskier wriggles his brows.</p>
<p>“<em>I said no! Vesemir! Geralt and Jaskier are being gross again!</em>”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>They do not fuck in the kitchen. Because that’s unsanitary, and that is the only reason. Jaskier looks deliciously rumpled and enticing, and Geralt has a lot of pent-up energy that translates very well to bedroom activities, so it’s a close call. Somehow, they manage to control themselves.</p>
<p>They also make sure to <em>look </em>like they fucked in the kitchen, just to annoy Eskel. There’s a lot of muttering about ‘fucking bastards, desecrating the whole fucking keep’ that night at the table, despite the Witchers all being fully capable of smelling just what had and hadn’t happened earlier.</p>
<p>Geralt trails his fingers over Jaskier knee under the table and ignores his brothers.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>A few days later, Ciri pulls the rug out from under Geralt.</p>
<p>He’s walking her to Yennefer’s laboratory; she’s perfectly capable of finding the way herself, of course, but she’d twisted her ankle during training, and though she’s insists she’s fine, Geralt knows all about hiding pain and injury, so he keeps an eye on her.</p>
<p>He’s been nodding and <em>hmm</em>ing as she talked, until suddenly, she asks, “Why don’t you and Jaskier wear wedding rings?”</p>
<p>Geralt pauses. Frowns. “It’s not a real marriage,” he says.</p>
<p>She blinks. “I know it was spurred by Destiny, but they must have given you rings, for the ceremony? Or is that not the custom with Redanians?”</p>
<p>“No, they gave us rings. Jaskier has them in his bag.” Jaskier had worn his at the beginning, too, until he’d come clean about his plan, and the charade had become something they performed for other people, not between themselves.</p>
<p>“Then why don’t you wear them?”</p>
<p>He repeats, “Because we’re not really married.”</p>
<p>“But…” she’s starting to look perplexed. “That was only then, wasn’t it?”</p>
<p>Geralt doesn’t know what to say. In part, he doesn’t understand her question; as far as he’s aware, neither the plan nor their marriage has changed in any way. Is there some Redanian marriage tradition that Geralt has forgotten about? Some renewal of vows they must go through in the name of Destiny? No, Jaskier would’ve told him. <em>Loudly</em>. If only to pretend to be put upon and annoy Geralt into going through with it.</p>
<p>Instead of putting that into words, he just says, “Hmm.”</p>
<p>Ciri’s eyes widen. “Oh, gods. You don’t know.”</p>
<p>Don’t know what? “<em>Hmm</em>.”  </p>
<p>They’ve arrived at the laboratory; Yennefer sticks her head out the door and asks, “What’s going on? That’s Geralt’s clueless noise.”</p>
<p>“He doesn’t know he’s in love with Jaskier,” Ciri hisses.</p>
<p>What. He’s not—</p>
<p>“Oh. Yes. That.”</p>
<p><em>What</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the finale!<br/>this chapter is a bit shorter than the others, simply because every time i tried to write more, it felt wrong. thank you all for sticking with me, and thank you for your kind words and love!</p>
<p>content warnings:<br/>- sex<br/>- emotions</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Yennefer refuses to say any more and forbids Ciri from doing so either. “I am not here to be a sounding board for your emotional constipation,” she tells him airily. “If you need someone to curse him if he ever leaves you, I’m your woman. Until then: get out of my lab.”</p>
<p>She shuts the door in his face.</p>
<p>Geralt stands there frowning for a good long while. He’s got no idea what Ciri and Yennefer are talking about. He is most definitely <em>not</em> in love with Jaskier. Attracted to him, obviously, but that’s just physical compatibility. His husba—<em>the bard </em>has his charms, many of which Geralt finds pleasing. The thick brown hair and starry blue eyes. The shape of him, strong but also delicate somehow, so at odds with Geralt himself. His pale neck, the hair on his chest, the long, shapely line of his legs. His fleshy backside and plump cock, dexterous fingers and plush lips.</p>
<p>Geralt will even admit to a fair amount of possessiveness, but that, too, is sexual in nature. Part of it is Jaskier’s smell; these days, it’s so mingled with Geralt’s own, he can even smell Jaskier on him now. It lingers in his hair, in the faint lines he made with his nails along Geralt’s back and belly, the traces he left of himself around Geralt’s mouth. He smells like Geralt’s, and Geralt smells like his. It’s only natural when they spend so much time together.</p>
<p>Yennefer and Ciri have it wrong.</p>
<p>Calm, if not exactly absolved of his aggravation, he tracks Jaskier down. Jaskier will understand; he’ll laugh and tell Geralt that they are both out of their minds, and then later, when he and Yennefer are cheerfully sniping at each other at the dinner table, he’ll take her misguided words and disprove them.</p>
<p>Nose in the air like a hound, Geralt follows Jaskier’s scent to the library. He finds his husband in front of the fireplace, slouched in a chair with his legs curled up tight to support the journal he’s furiously scribbling in. The firelight dances in his hair, making the lighter strands look auburn, the darker ones ebony. He glances up when Geralt comes in, smiles quickly, then goes back to his journal.</p>
<p>At the foot of his chair, there’s a soft rug, and Geralt sits himself there, leaning back to keep his eyes on Jaskier. If the scrutiny unnerves him, he doesn’t show it. He just pats Geralt’s hair absently and mutters about rhyme schemes.</p>
<p>“What rhymes with ‘siren’?” he asks. “Nothing sensible, that’s what.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.”</p>
<p>“No, I don’t think changing it to ‘mermaid’ is going to help.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.”</p>
<p>“I’m working on that story I told you about—the one with the prince and the mermaid who loves him and—”</p>
<p>“<em>Hmm</em>.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care that that’s not how mermaids act, Geralt, it’s artistic license!”</p>
<p>Geralt rolls his eyes. Jaskier and he have argued about this many a night already. Jaskier insists it’ll be romantic, and people will love it, and ‘who’s the bard here? Who rebuilt the reputations of Witchers with just two songs?’ Geralt has tried to insist that ‘that’s not how sirens work, Jaskier, what the fuck, they’ll eat you, no, don’t encourage the sailors to try and charm them, they’re already thinking with their pricks, they don’t need any encouragement’. Does Jaskier listen? No.</p>
<p>Instead, he argues with Geralt; both for the sake of his damned ‘artistic licence’, but also because he enjoys arguing. He claims that it’s because it’s Geralt ‘gets all huffy about monster science, it’s like you’re inviting me to annoy you’, but Geralt can tell it’s more than that. When they bicker, Jaskier seems to glow with happiness, even when Geralt gets stuck on something that frustrates them both. He’ll throw his arms up and his voice will rise in pitch, but he’ll still step in close, still catch Geralt’s cheek in his palm and caress it.</p>
<p>Geralt blinks.</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>.”</p>
<p>“What is it, love?” Jaskier asks distractedly. “If it’s about the thing with their teeth again—I’m not changing it, so don’t bother.”</p>
<p>Geralt mutters that it’s nothing. It is, however, very much something. Yennefer and Ciri were wrong; it’s not that Geralt is in love with Jaskier. It’s that <em>Jaskier</em> is in love with <em>Geralt</em>.</p>
<p>That is. Not good. That is <em>not</em> what they agreed. Fifty years and that’s it, they’ll go their separate ways, Destiny permitting. Fifty years is already a long time as friends and bedmates; throw in love, and Geralt will only disappoint.</p>
<p>He’s just going to have to ignore it. Don’t call attention to it, pretend he hasn’t noticed. Jaskier will get over it; it’s likely to be just a flight of fancy, spurred by sex and proximity. Geralt will just keep his mouth shut and not ask.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Are you in love with me?” he asks that night in bed.</p>
<p>Jaskier looks up slowly. His heart, however, is beating very fast. “The answer to that is going to strongly depend on how well you’ll take it if I say ‘yes’.”</p>
<p>Then, he just stares at Geralt while Geralt does his best not to run. Fuck. <em>Fuck</em>. This was why he decided not to ask, what the fuck just happened? He should’ve just stayed silent. But now that he’s already poked the bear: “How long?”</p>
<p>“I repeat: the answer to that is strongly dependent on how upset you’re going to be if I tell you the truth.”</p>
<p>Someone’s making a noise like a dying ogre. It may be Geralt. “<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>“Look, I knew you were going to get all in a tizzy about it, so I didn’t say anything—well, I didn’t say anything <em>directly</em>, that is, it was very much implied otherwise—”</p>
<p>“<em>What</em>.”</p>
<p>“What, you thought I called you pet names just because I like winding you up? I mean, I do like winding you up, but if that was all, I wouldn’t call you ‘love’ or—”</p>
<p>“Those are <em>jokes</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yes, well.” Jaskier smiles; it’s not happy, but it’s not hurt either. A little frustrated, a little self-conscious. Jaskier’s never been self-conscious a day in his life, this is all wrong. “It’s always easier to tell the truth when you can shrug it off as a jest. Especially something as mad as immediately knowing I’d fall in love with you—even if I did take it for admiration rather than love at first. You made me waste perfectly good wine on realizing that.”</p>
<p>“What win—<em>Jaskier</em>. No. You can’t be serious.”</p>
<p>“Don’t make that face, I haven’t been pining away or anything. But I did look at you that night in Cintra and immediately, I knew. You thought it was fear? <em>Please</em>, the most frightening thing about you was the completely and utter disrespect you had for your fine clothes.” He sighs, starts to get up. “I’ll sleep somewhere el—”</p>
<p>Geralt catches him around the waist and pulls him back on the bed. In truth, he very much wants to run from the room himself, but something has got him rooted to the spot, and there is no way he’s dealing with that alone. Not when Jaskier has just said those things.</p>
<p>“You’re wrong,” he grinds out.</p>
<p>Jaskier raises a brow. “I assure you I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.”</p>
<p>“Please, Geralt, of the two of us, I am far savvier in the ways of the heart than you are. I love you; I have for longer than is logical. There’s nothing you can say that will change that.”</p>
<p>But there is. He shouldn’t say it though. It’s cruel. But Jaskier can’t love him, it’ll only hurt him in the end. Geralt has a habit of letting down the ones he cares about. And the last time he hadn’t told the full truth, he’d nearly lost everything. So he steels himself and says, “But I don’t love you.”</p>
<p>Jaskier blinks. And then, of all things, laughs. “<em>Oh</em>. Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho. So that’s what this is about.” He scoots down and turns over, still chuckling. “We’ll talk about that when you’ve removed your head from up your ass.”</p>
<p>“Jas—”</p>
<p>“No! Sleepy-time, husband mine.”</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, for gods’ sake.”</p>
<p>Rolling over, he slips in close to Geralt. Their chests press together; he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat against him, still a little elevated, but strong and steady. Jaskier seizes him by the neck and pulls him in, grazing their lips together. Slowly at first, barely more than breaths; Geralt has his eyes open, and so does Jaskier, and the way Jaskier looks at him makes it feel like there are angry bees buzzing through him. Then, Jaskier darts in, presses kiss after kiss against Geralt’s mouth, darts back out of reach when Geralt tries to kiss back, his good sense leaking out of his ears.</p>
<p>When Jaskier finally lets him in, he spares no inch; he licks inside Jaskier’s mouth, tasting him in fully. He grunts when Jaskier sucks on his tongue. There’s a fire under his skin, and Jaskier is playing with it. Geralt should stop. But he doesn’t. Isn’t sure he can.</p>
<p>But then, Jaskier gentles it, brings them back down to shared breaths. He presses their foreheads together and breathes deeply. Geralt mimics him. One of them is trembling. It’s not Jaskier.</p>
<p>“I’m right here,” Jaskier says, nonsensically. “And I’ll wait until you’re ready. But try to hurry it up a little, yes?”</p>
<p>One last kiss, and he goes to sleep.</p>
<p>Geralt is left frowning in the dark, still catching his breath.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>After that, nothing changes. Geralt is highly suspicious.</p>
<p>The first morning, Geralt tries to put some space between them; Jaskier may have slept by his side all night, but maybe now he’s realized that loving Geralt is an exercise in futility and unreciprocated besides. Best give him some space to re-draw the boundaries between them. Whatever he decides, Geralt will accept. He doesn’t want to lose him.</p>
<p>However, Jaskier re-draws absolutely nothing. Instead, he arrives at breakfast, sits down, and hooks his knee over Geralt’s thigh before assembling their breakfast plate (singular. Because for weeks, they’d been taking things off each other’s plates, and then decided to just share one plate to save on clean-up).</p>
<p>Though he’s not proud of it, Geralt stills in his seat. On a normal day, he’d put one hand on Jaskier’s knee and use the other to eat with. But is he allowed to touch now? What is Jaskier even doing? Maybe he’s still half-asleep and unaware.</p>
<p>But no. Jaskier is perfectly awake.</p>
<p>All day, he acts like Geralt hasn’t said anything. He bumps their shoulders together, grabs Geralt’s hand when he gets particularly excited, or raises his head for a kiss that Geralt gives out of sheer reflex. It’s not even that Geralt doesn’t try to give him space; he <em>does</em>.</p>
<p>But Jaskier doesn’t let up.</p>
<p>What is Geralt supposed to do with that?</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> He doesn’t do anything with it, mostly because he doesn’t see what he could do. The world goes on, the days pass by, and they all stick to the routine they’ve built.</p>
<p>One thing that changes is that Geralt and Jaskier stop having sex. They still kiss, still touch, but Jaskier doesn’t instigate anything even when his eyes go bright and his scent grows warm with lust. Geralt doesn’t do anything about it either, despite his body’s instant reaction to Jaskier’s desire. He’s pretty sure he’s lost the right to. Besides: it’s unwise to keep going.</p>
<p>Wisdom is nothing to want, though. They don’t have sex until suddenly they do.</p>
<p>It’s one of the first times that the snow has receded just enough for them to go outside. Winter is by no means over, but the weather’s been warmer than usual, and the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen take full advantage. They pour outside to run off their energy, even Jaskier and Yennefer, who get into a spirited snowball fight with Ciri and Vesemir, of all people. Geralt and his brothers let lose, growling and wrestling like pups, mud staining their clothes. Jaskier begs off after an hour and a half, citing cold hands.</p>
<p>Geralt finds him a while later.</p>
<p>He stops in the doorway and stares at his husband. Geralt is sweaty and dirty, his hair tangled with melted snow, and his blood is up. He must look half-wild standing on the threshold to their room. But Jaskier just smiles warmly and nods toward the bath he’s prepared for him. His own skin is still dewy from a soak, his lacy shirt sticking to his skin, and his breeches aren’t laced all the way up. He turns away, humming.</p>
<p>Geralt pounces.</p>
<p>“Dear heart, are you—<em>oh</em>.”</p>
<p>It’s quick and messy. Maybe Geralt would feel ashamed of how rough he is if Jaskier didn’t make it audibly clear just how much he enjoys it. Geralt prepares him only briefly, fingers barely cleaned and slicked with oil, Jaskier’s breeches pushed down around his thighs and his shirt pushed up. Half-bent over their bed, he arches his back and coaxes Geralt to go faster.</p>
<p>He doesn’t even get undressed himself, just unlaces his trousers, slicks himself, and pushes in. A groan punches out of him. It’s been too long; much, much too long for how they used to be, but gods, is it glorious to be back inside him. He leaves mud stains on Jaskier’s hips and finger-shaped bruises beneath them. For the first time since they arrived, Jaskier doesn’t hold his noises in check, sings for Geralt until the whole keep seems to echo with it.</p>
<p>Jaskier reaches back and pulls him closer, fingers digging into Geralt’s ass. “<em>Faster</em>, damn you, come on, I’m yours love, <em>come on, </em>fuck—”</p>
<p>He comes with Geralt’s hands on him, on his cock and between his legs, fingers tracing where they’re connected. His voice breaks and his body clenches, squeezing Geralt so sweetly. When he’s done, he collapses forward, balance gone, but he gathers enough wherewithal to look back over his shoulder and tilt his hips up and say, “Keep going.”</p>
<p>Geralt couldn’t stop if the world was ending. He ruts into Jaskier, no care for anything except his own pleasure. With his eyes closed, he can still picture Jaskier beneath him, the filthy way he’s presented himself for Geralt, how blissed his expression is.</p>
<p>“<em>Jaskier</em>.” It’s all he can say. “<em>Jaskier</em>.”</p>
<p>Jaskier cries his name back. And Geralt comes.</p>
<p>After, when the sweat has started to dry and Jaskier starts to squirm at the itchy feel of drying cum between his thighs, Geralt just looks at him. He looks <em>ruined</em>; flushed, dazed, and delighted by it. He laughs when he notices Geralt watching him; Geralt kisses his smile.</p>
<p>“Are you with me?” he asks.</p>
<p>Geralt frowns. He hasn’t caught his breath yet. “Yes…?”</p>
<p>“Not quite yet,” Jaskier says. “You’ll get there.”</p>
<p>For some reason, that makes Geralt say, “You don’t wear your wedding ring.”</p>
<p>Jaskier shrugs. “It’s ugly as sin. Can you even wear yours? Is it big enough? I could braid it into your hair, I suppose, but to tell you the truth, your ring, too, is frightfully hideous. I guess we can’t fault them too much, they did have to get them at a moment’s notice. Posada is <em>not</em> the fashion capital of the world…”</p>
<p>For some reason, Jaskier disliking their wedding rings bothers Geralt.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>A week passes before he understands why that is. And realizes that maybe Yennefer and Ciri were onto something.</p>
<p>They’re in the stables, brushing down the horses, Geralt, Jaskier, Eskel, and Lambert all. Jaskier is a little ways off with Greg; there’s only one section of the stables that is roomy enough to let the unicorn move around with his head held high now that his horn has grown to nearly three feet in length. Jaskier is braiding Greg’s mane, the tip of his tongue sticking out. And Geralt is…</p>
<p>Staring and Jaskier and not doing his job.</p>
<p>“That’s my husband,” he says to Eskel, who happens to be closest.</p>
<p>“Mhm, yes, it is,” Eskel says, a little confused.</p>
<p>“That’s <em>my </em>husband.”</p>
<p>“Right?”</p>
<p>“What’s happening?” Lambert asks.</p>
<p>“Geralt is having an episode.”</p>
<p>“Oh, fun!”</p>
<p>“That’s my <em>husband,</em>” Geralt repeats. He’s heart is galloping—as much as it ever does for a Witcher, that is. “I’m <em>Jaskier’s husband.</em>”</p>
<p>“Rig—oh! I get it! I see what’s happening! Eskel, he’s—”</p>
<p>“That means I win the bet.”</p>
<p>“FUCK.”</p>
<p>
  <em>*</em>
</p>
<p>Geralt disappears for a few hours to process his revelation. It’s not that he’s emotionally constipated, <em>Yennefer</em>, it’s just that he needs to ruminate on things a little longer. When he acts on impulse, things tend to go to shit (see: the Law of Surprise. Though maybe, he can start to think of that as things going <em>right</em>).</p>
<p>When he’s done, he goes to find Jaskier, not wasting any time. On the way, he goes over the things he’ll say. He’ll be concise. He’ll be honest. He’ll apologise for saying he doesn’t love Jaskier when obviously, he does. He will endure the teasing that is bound to follow, and he will fucking enjoy it.</p>
<p>When he finds Jaskier, however, the first thing he says is: “I want to renegotiate.”</p>
<p>Jaskier startles. “Wha—?”</p>
<p>“The fifty years. It’s too brief.” He slips off his medallion and presses it into Jaskier’s hand. “And if I die, I want you to hold on to this.”</p>
<p>Jaskier blinks. He knows what that medallion means to Witcher. It’s not just a possession, not just a tool to warn them of danger. It’s the mark of what Geralt is and what he’s survived, the one thing that might return to Kaer Morhen if he’s slain on the Path, the one thing his family might have left of him. It’s a promise. It's better than a wedding ring.</p>
<p>“You just don’t know how to say ‘I love you’ like a normal person, do you?” he says, but his lips are pulling into a smile, and he’s bright and sharp and Geralt’s, and Geralt’s is <em>his</em>. There’s a hitch in his voice even as he threatens, “Also, if you die, I’m resurrecting you.”</p>
<p>Is that Geralt’s heart beating so loud? “Necromancy is illegal.”</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck that!”</p>
<p>They stand there staring at each other like fools, the only point of contact being their hands and the medallion between them. It’s hard to tell who moves first; Geralt would like to say it’s him, but given that it’s his back that crashes against the wall as Jaskier throws himself into his arms, it’s probably not.</p>
<p>It doesn’t matter.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Of everyone Geralt expects to act all smug the at dinner, it’s Vesemir who starts clapping when they walk into the dining hall. “Fucking finally,” he says, voice raised to be heard over Eskel and Lambert’s enthusiastic hollering.</p>
<p>Ciri pinwheels with excitement and nearly bowls the both of them over, hugging first Geralt, then Jaskier, then bouncing back and hugging Geralt again. “I knew it!” she shrieks. “I told you! I <em>told</em> you!”</p>
<p>Yennefer salutes them with her cup. “Remember what I told you, bard,” she adds, vaguely threatening.</p>
<p>“Yes, yes, pain, blood, death, I know. Now congratulate me, she-devil.”</p>
<p>That night is merry with laughter, food, and love. Geralt looks around at the faces of his family and feels a pang of contentment settle deep into his gut. He’s home. With Jaskier by his side, with his brothers, and Vesemir, the only father he’s ever known, and Yennefer, and Ciri, who’s growing stronger every day, Geralt is finally home.</p>
<p>Maybe, just maybe… Destiny has some idea of what it’s doing.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>okay, so.</p>
<p>i have ideas for at least two more non-human Jaskier fics. I also have ideas for like, four Modern!AUs, because my brain does not know how to chill. I'm also slowly going to start preparing for my thesis, however, so i can't promise a due date on any of those, but i wanted to at least announce the possiblity of more. we'll see how it goes, shall we?</p>
<p>take care, y'all &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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